


Escape from L.A.

by skeilig



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Affairs, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eddie Kaspbrak Cheats on Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie has kids, Eddie's Slowburn Divorce, Explicit Sexual Content, Infidelity, Injury Recovery, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Stanley Uris Lives, Sympathetic Myra characterization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 111,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22697983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeilig/pseuds/skeilig
Summary: In the Jade of the Orient, between his second and third glass of Chardonnay, Eddie says to Richie, “You gotta come visit me in New York sometime, man. You can meet Myra and the kids.”And Richie says, “‘Myra and the kids’? Please tell me that's the name of your band.”+If time doesn’t heal then what is it good for?
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 368
Kudos: 591





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reigenagain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reigenagain/gifts).



> The concept is inspired by the Bojack episode of the same name (and the opening joke is stolen from that episode). For those of you who are familiar and feeling a sense of dread right now: Don’t worry, the Bad Thing you are thinking of will definitely not happen and this will end better for everyone involved.

In the Jade of the Orient, between his second and third glass of Chardonnay, Eddie says to Richie, “You gotta come visit me in New York sometime, man. You can meet Myra and the kids.”

And Richie says, “‘Myra and the kids’? Please tell me that's the name of your band.”

Eddie pulls out his phone to show him a photo of Charlotte, eight, and Frank, five. Both sit on the lap of a woman who looks a little like Sonia Kaspbrak, in Richie’s memory at least, but maybe younger, prettier. She has a soft, round face, blond hair that brushes her shoulders. She looks like she might smile sometimes. 

“Frank,” Richie repeats, staring at the kid. God, he looks like Eddie used to, small nose and serious mouth, but fairer, blond. Freckles dust across his cheeks. “That’s quite the name to saddle a little kid with.”

“It was my dad’s name,” Eddie snaps, pocketing his phone again. “Asshole.” His face is so expressive when he’s angry at Richie, accompanied by big loud gestures, stabs of his hand; it’s performative. Richie may be only just beginning to remember this guy, but he remembers that.

And Richie’s provocations were always performance, too, so he doubles down. “I didn’t even remember your name until an hour ago, dude. How the fuck was I supposed to remember your dead dad’s name?” 

Bill pipes up from across the table and the middle of another conversation just to scold him: “Richie.” His disapproving look tickles with familiarity, and another memory seeps up through the wellspring of the years. Did Bill fucking _punch him in the face?_

In any case, Eddie doesn’t look mad, not in any real, lasting way. His eyebrows twitch, an unfocused array of emotions. There’s a glimmer of amusement in there, but Richie lets it slide. 

“My dad’s dead, too,” Richie grumbles. With that, he takes another shot, relishing the burn that draws a line from his throat all the way to the pit of his stomach.

—

In the sewers, clothes sodden with gray water and face coated in alien slime, Richie slaps his hand to Eddie’s shoulder and tells him, “You’re braver than you think you are.”

Later, when Eddie charges after It with a fence stake and ends up skewered through the chest, he regrets saying that. 

It takes Richie a long few crucial seconds to wrap his head around what’s happening. One moment he’s coughing back to consciousness, the cold dampness of the cave seeping up through the back of his clothes. Eddie is on top of him, warm and heavy, patting his face and chest, and saying his name, loud and bright. In another moment, Eddie’s words are cut off by a strangled gasp and there’s a hot spray across Richie’s face. His glasses are flecked and through them, he stares up at Eddie, and Eddie stares down at him, hands circling the white claw that protrudes from the center of his chest. It takes Eddie a few seconds, too. He whimpers Richie’s name.

When Eddie’s body is flung across the cavern, Richie finally snaps out of it. He scrambles to his feet and runs faster toward Eddie than he’s ever run from It. He reaches him a couple seconds before anyone else does, so they get a moment alone. A moment for Richie to help Eddie onto his back and to prop him up against a rock. A moment for Richie to see the gaping, pulsing wound in the middle of his chest and feel his eyes widen. A moment for Richie to say, “I’m so sorry,” even though Eddie probably doesn’t know why he’s sorry. Eddie probably can’t understand language right now; his face twists in pain and he grunts as his legs kick out involuntarily against the ground. 

The rest of the Losers find them and they’re as frantic and bad at decision making as always, fretting around Eddie and trying to cook up a plan. Richie is sure it won’t work, whatever it is, and he’s given up caring, anyway.

When the plan _does_ work, Richie only allows himself a moment to feel relief before he remembers: “Eddie.” 

Again, Richie reaches him first and crouches in front of him, but he’s not moving anymore. His eyes slipped shut at some point after Richie left him. Richie shakes Eddie’s shoulder and pats his face, but the place is starting to come down, and Ben and Mike are each pulling on one of Richie’s arms. They’re yelling and Richie’s yelling and none of it comes through clearly until Bill puts his hand under Eddie’s nose and shouts, “Guys, he’s still breathing!”

“I told you,” Richie screams, fighting them off. He scratches Ben’s arm in the struggle and hears him hiss. “I fucking told you, he’s alive, he’s fucking alive.” 

Richie hoists Eddie up, piggy-back style, loose and flopping and bleeding hot against Richie’s back. He groans as he’s jostled and Richie apologizes, but his chest lights up with hope. The other Losers help keep Eddie in place, but Richie carries him all the way out.

—

In the hospital, Eddie is rushed into emergency surgery. When they wheel him away, through the swinging double doors, Richie feels a way he’s only felt before, stupidly enough, when he’s performing on stage. It’s a focused kind of energy, but crackling like a live wire, on the verge of losing control. He understands how people can flip cars from an adrenaline rush. Eddie’s not a _car_ , but Richie carried him for quite a while; now that he’s coming down, his arms feel limp and achy. 

So, maybe unexpectedly, Richie is composed. He doesn’t try to fight his way down the hospital hallway and he doesn’t break down in front of his friends. He sits in a chair in the waiting room and keeps it together, only betraying his tumultuous inner state via the rapid bouncing of one knee and a death grip on the arm rests. Probably the most concerning thing about his outward appearance is the fact that he’s covered in sewage. But in the Derry hospital waiting room, that’s hardly of note. 

It seems his friends are in a similar state. They sit and stare at the floor and at their hands for a while, without speaking. After ten minutes of silence, Bill asks with sudden clarity, “Did anyone call his wife?”

Ben glances up. “Shit, I forgot he’s married.”

“We all forgot,” Richie mutters. His stomach twists and the energy roiling inside him morphs into something less useful. 

Mike asks, “Did they get his ID?” and Bill decides that they should go talk to the reception desk, and doesn’t Mike have Eddie’s phone number? Cell phone? Did he get a home phone, too? Maybe they can find her on Facebook or something. Or they could look her up in a phone book. Are phone books still a thing? What did he say her name was? 

“Myra,” Richie mutters, and Mike says, “Yeah, that’s right. Myra Kaspbrak.” 

In the flurry of activity that becomes the Bill-and-Mike-making-decisions show, Ben and Bev slip away. Ben says, “You guys seem like you’ve got this,” (Richie thinks, _No, we really don’t_ ) and, “We’ll get out of the way.” The two go to wait outside. Once this is settled, they’ll go back to the Inn to get cleaned up and probably burn their clothes and sleep all day. 

Richie shadows Bill and Mike to the reception desk where they tag-team an explanation. The woman behind the desk pages a nurse to see if they can recover Myra’s number from Eddie’s phone. While they wait, Bill and Mike quietly conference about what their story should be.

At this point—hearing them discuss the collapsed house, and maybe Eddie was impaled on a beam or something, but why were we in there?—Richie taps out. “I’m going outside,” he says, already turning to leave. He’s not going to be much help; the idea of Myra receiving this phone call at—what time is it? After 6 already? Later than he thought—is making him sick. What did Eddie tell her when he left? Did he lie and invent a work-related excuse? That seems like his style, if Richie had to guess. Now, she’s just waking up or making the kids breakfast, and she’s going to get a call from the hospital… Richie tries to stop thinking like that. He’s switched tracks from adrenaline—warm and steadying—to a cold-sweat, trembling-hands kind of anxiety. 

Outside, he finds Ben and Bev leaning against a brick wall, a few paces from the ambulance bay, next to some concrete-caged bushes. They’re talking in low voices, standing close together. As Richie approaches, he can see Ben’s face, eyebrows knit together in that earnest, affectionate, puppy-dog look he always has when he looks at Bev. 

And Richie, who’s abrasive on a good day, has no qualms about interrupting their little rendezvous. “Hey, Marsh, can I bum a cigarette?”

Bev turns and looks at him like he’s crazy. “Richie, we were just up to our necks in sewer water and blood–”

“The blood was just you.”

“–so no, I don’t have any on me.”

Richie lets out his breath in a whistle and leans next to them on the wall. “Bummer.” 

It’s only a moment later that Ben, now standing a step farther from Bev, gestures to the gas station across the street and offers to go buy them a pack. Maybe he wants the excuse to leave, because he’s on his way before Richie or Bev say anything. 

Watching his retreating form half-jog across the street, Richie flops an arm over Bev’s shoulders. Her nose wrinkles slightly even though she’s the one covered in sewage _and_ blood. With his other hand he holds an imaginary microphone up to his mouth. “So, Beverly Marsh. You’ve just killed a demonic clown. What are you going to do next?”

With the microphone now in her face, Bev considers it, looks down, and rubs at her bruised wrist. “I guess I need to get a divorce lawyer.”

“No Disneyland?” 

“Maybe Disneyland after.” She folds into him, wraps an arm around his waist. 

Richie drops the act and draws her in closer. Then he says, heavily, “So, Ben.”

She tenses, shoulders drawing up toward her ears. Then with effort and a sigh, she relaxes. “So, Ben,” she agrees. 

“Don’t break his heart.”

She laughs in surprise, looking up at his face. “You’re not worried about me?”

“Hey, Ben has been my friend a little longer than you have. I have my loyalties in order.” 

She laughs again, tightening her arm around his waist. They stand like that for a while, looking out across the parking lot. They watch Ben leave the gas station and hurry back across the street. Before he reaches them, Bev says softly, “He’s gonna be okay, Richie.” 

Richie nods, following the unspoken shift in who ‘he’ is, and manages a smile. “Yeah. I hope so.”

Mike and Bill find them all outside a few minutes later, where Richie and Bev are silently smoking. Mike announces, “They got in touch with Myra and she’ll fly in from New York as soon as possible.” 

Richie’s stomach lurches. “Shit. What did they tell her? What are we gonna say? What if he’s not awake by then? How the fuck do we explain this?” 

“We’ll think of something,” Bill says grimly, and it’s not an answer, but it makes Richie feel better. It’s the feeling of not being alone, knowing that someone else will shoulder the burden with you. Richie hasn’t felt that way in a long time, since growing up and leaving home and never finding another home with another person. For a long time, all his problems were his alone, and Richie had valued that, but not for the independence; he liked the fact that he was free to fuck up. That no one else was counting on him. Maybe he forgot that relationships are more than just people to disappoint. 

Then Mike says, “Hey, can you two finish your cigarettes so we can go take showers?” 

Bev snuffs hers against the wall and Richie sucks down what remains of his. 

On the drive back to the Townhouse, through quiet, early morning Derry, they pass the library. While they stare at the brick facade ahead, they all have the same thought at the same time. 

Mike voices it as he lets the car slow. “Bowers.”

Richie, crammed in the backseat of the sedan with Ben and Bev, drops his head against the front passenger seat. “Fuck. I can’t believe I forgot I killed a person.” 

“That’s my house,” Mike says, quiet and sad, and it’s possibly the funniest thing Richie has ever heard but he doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he lifts his head, a sudden idea occurring to him. “I mean, I mean– do you think…” 

Everyone looks at Richie, except for Mike who’s staring out the windshield at the library as they coast toward it.

“Could it be a Pennywise trick?” Richie suggests. “Maybe we should make sure the… body is still there?” 

Without debate, Mike clicks on his turn signal and they pull into the library parking lot. The body is indeed still there. Richie almost throws up again but by some minor miracle he doesn’t. 

While they stand around Bowers’ slumped, bloody body, Richie finally says, “Would it be horrible to deal with this after we get cleaned up and changed? I mean, it’s already been all night.”

“Yeah, but Marta will be here by eight,” Mike says with a heavy sigh. So he calls the police. 

Instead of cleaning up at the Townhouse, the Losers take turns in Mike’s weird library-attic bathroom—the shower has hideously low water pressure, no better than a spigot—then get dressed in clothes borrowed from Mike. It’s just to hold them over until they get back to the Townhouse, none of their own clothes salvageable, but Richie loves this development. Mike is the tallest of them all, so his clothes actually fit Richie and Ben pretty well, but Bev and Bill look adorably swamped in t-shirts and jean-shorts. Richie wishes Eddie was with them for this part. He would look hilarious in a pair of Mike’s khakis, holding them up around his waist and bunched around his ankles. 

Then they take turns being interviewed by the sheriff. Mike knows the sheriff—he knows everybody in Derry—so it’s friendly for a murder investigation. Richie readily confesses to the crime, but it’s clear self defense. The only real lying they do concerns the exact timeline of the murder; in their narrative, it happened just before they took Eddie to the hospital, so they don’t have hours and hours to explain before they called the police. (Bill, crime writer extraordinaire, assures them that this small difference will be undetectable by forensics—if they do any forensics for this case at all.) Lying to the police together feels like another blood oath, something that will tie them together for the next twenty years. Richie considers calling each of them up next year and, through a voice disguiser, telling them he ‘knows what they did last summer.’ 

It’s close to 9am and Mike is about to drive them back to the Townhouse, where they’ll be happy to crash for a few hours, when his phone rings. He squints at it then looks up at the rest of the Losers, eyes wide. 

“It’s… um. Hello?” He answers and the four of them hover around him with rapt attention. 

Ben whispers, “Who is it, Mike?” 

His face flickers through a few emotions, all in his eyebrows: surprise and relief, and something overwhelming that can’t be named or contained. 

“Mike?” Bill prompts, hand on his shoulder. 

Mike nods and says, “I’m– yeah, I’m with them now.” He pulls his phone away from his ear and puts it on speaker. 

“Hey,” says the voice over the phone. “This is Stanley. Do you all remember me?” 

Bev gasps, hand flying to her mouth and tears already welling. Ben’s hand is on her back and he’s smiling through tears as well. None of the Losers able to coherently respond quite yet, Stan continues, “Patty said you called the other day, and I was still… Well. I pulled through.”

After a long beat, Bill says, “Oh my god, Stan,” with a laugh-sob and that says it all. The rest of the Losers join in then, all talking over each other: _we thought you were dead, we can’t believe it, oh my god, are you okay?_

Stan is considerably calmer than the rest of them, saying, “Yes, I’m fine, thank you, I’m sorry.” And then, when they quiet down, “So what– what happened?”

“W-we got It, man,” Bill says. “It’s done. It’s over.”

“That’s– good.” Stan’s voice is choked. “That’s really good.”

“But Eddie,” Richie says after a quiet moment. “He’s… he’ll be fine, but he’s in the hospital. He hasn’t woken up yet.”

“Oh no,” Stan says softly. “I’m sorry. Please keep me updated on how he’s doing.”

They promise to do so and exchange a few more soft words before Mike hangs up.

After two sleepless nights in a row, it almost hurts to close their eyes, but as soon as they make it to their rooms back at the Townhouse they all pass out instantly, before even changing from Mike’s clothes. 

It’s dark when Richie wakes up. Disoriented, he thinks he’s at home in L.A., until his eyes adjust and he recognizes the unfamiliar geography of the room. When he sits up to get his bearings, everything comes crashing back. Heart already pounding, he grapples for his phone on the nightstand. It’s shortly after 9pm and he has a few texts from Bev and Bill, sent two hours ago, informing him that they’re hanging around downstairs and have food for whenever he wakes up.

So Richie hauls himself to his feet and, still in Mike’s henley and jeans, stumbles down the stairs. His four friends are sitting on the ornate chairs in the perpetually-unstaffed lobby, and speaking in hushed tones, but with soft smiles on their faces. It feels nice, it feels like home, and Richie lets go of some of the anxiety that hit him as soon as he woke up. 

Then, paused on the landing of the stairs, his eyes fall on the take-out containers on the coffee table. “Chinese? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

Bev twists around to smile at him. “What? You’re never gonna eat Chinese again just because of some little traumatic experience?”

“Could at least take a break for a few months… years…” Richie drops onto the couch next to Bill. 

“I specifically requested no fortune cookies,” Mike says. Then, “Are you still wearing my clothes, Rich?” 

Richie doesn’t answer and leans forward to help himself to some fried rice and lo mein. “Good thing Eddie isn’t here to scold me about eating food that’s been sitting at room temperature for hours.” 

His joke changes the atmosphere in the room, draws out some tension like a string pulled tight. While Richie sits back and starts shoveling fried rice into his face, Bill says, “I… I guess we sh-should go to the hospital. Check in. They sss-said they would call with any updates but I haven’t heard anything.” 

Mike asks, “Do you think his wife is here yet?” 

Bill nods solemnly. “Probably.” 

While they slept, Myra arrived in Derry like a hurricane, yelling at doctors and fighting about insurance over the phone and doing all the things that Eddie’s friends couldn’t do for him. They’re married and that means something. Eddie’s surgery was a success and he’s stable now, but still unconscious. 

The Losers pile back into Mike’s car and go to the hospital. “I guess we’re nocturnal now,” Richie comments, but Ben says he’ll have no trouble falling asleep again in a couple hours. 

Back at the hospital, while they wait for a doctor to come to speak to them, Bill and Ben and Bev start taking cautious steps back into the real world. Bill spends nearly an hour on the phone with his wife, and then another length of time with a producer on the movie he abandoned for Derry. He keeps his voice down to a polite level, standing by the window in the waiting room, but the rest of the Losers can hear enough of what he’s saying to exchange nervous glances with each other. Ben doesn’t have as much damage control to do; he missed a few meetings, which he seems torn up about, as if he’s not enough of a hot shot to do that without remorse. Bev spends some time talking to a friend and tentatively starts researching divorce lawyers. Mike says he’s thinking about putting in notice at the library and leaving Derry in the dust. 

“I’ll drink to that,” Richie mumbles, lifting his styrofoam coffee cup in a toast. But really, Richie can’t fathom how the rest of his friends can talk like this, turn their faces toward the rising sun and start planning for the future. Richie’s responsibilities in L.A. feel as distant and foggy as his childhood in Derry felt a week ago. 

Finally, a doctor pulls them into a private room for a chat. She can’t let them in to see Eddie—his wife has refused all other visitors, which is no surprise—but she assures them that he’s doing as well as can be expected. She has a calming air and explains his condition in a way that makes a lot of sense while she’s saying it, but as soon as she leaves, they look at each other with blank confusion, not sure what exactly they just learned. 

It’s after midnight and they’re about to head back to the Townhouse for the night when a woman bursts through the double doors leading from the hallway and makes her way through the waiting room, toward the exit. 

With a start, Richie recognizes her from the photo Eddie showed him yesterday, at the restaurant. “Guys,” he says. “That’s Myra.”

He’s not suggesting that they take any kind of immediate action, but he should have known better. 

Bill calls her name and she spins around to face them. Then she glances over her shoulder, as if there might be another Myra they were calling to, before she crosses the room toward them. She holds a purse on her shoulder like armor, or like she thinks it might get snatched in the middle of a hospital, and looks at each of the Losers. They look more presentable than they did this morning, but not by much. 

“Are you–” she begins, her tone clipped. She focuses her words at Bill; he’s standing a half-step in front of everyone else, assuming the position of de facto leader. “The doctor said Eddie’s ‘friends’ brought him in, but he didn’t say he was meeting anyone here.” 

“Yes, we’re his friends,” Bill says. “W-we grew up in Derry together. We’re so sorry this happened, and if you’d like to sss-ss-sit down for a few minutes we can explain–”

Richie exchanges a nervous look with Bev because they have not yet discussed their strategy for explaining this. 

But turns out, it doesn’t matter. Myra shakes her head and backs away from them. “No, no, you’ve done enough. The doctor told me what happened. An abandoned building collapsed? Whatever you did… I don’t want to hear it. Stay away from me and stay away from Eddie.”

“I mean, Eddie can make that decision for himself.” The words are out before Richie realizes that talking back is a bad move. 

Myra turns her gaze, somehow fiery and icy all at once, to Richie. “No, actually, he can’t make any decisions for himself right now because he’s in a coma because of something that _you_ did.” 

Richie snaps his mouth shut. Bill tries one more time to appeal to her rationality or sympathy or whatever, but it fails. She threatens to report them to security and she leaves. 

“I don’t think she has the grounds to get us kicked out,” Mike says mildly once she’s out of earshot. 

“That sucked,” Richie mutters, lifting his glasses to scrub at his eyes. “That really… did not feel good.” Bev rubs his back, but Richie doesn’t find much comfort in it. He knows it’s just the anxiety clouding his mind, but he starts to worry that Myra is right. That, when Eddie wakes up, he won’t want to see the Losers again—won’t want to see _Richie_ again. Or worse, maybe he won't even remember. 

Ben calmly suggests that they return to the Inn—“We still have sleep to catch up on.”—so Mike drives them all back. As soon as they’re inside, Bev and Ben eagerly head up the stairs together and now Richie is suspicious of Ben’s motives. But whatever. Good for them. Richie and Bill linger at the unstaffed bar for a quick nightcap. 

At some point over the years, probably thanks to the stress of touring, Richie developed a taste for sipping straight bourbon, so he pours them each a splash in glass tumblers. Bill keeps making a face and gagging at the smell, and Richie makes fun of him until he runs that joke into the ground. Then they sit side by side on the stools for a while in silence. 

“So, Ben and Bev,” Richie says finally. 

Bill smiles into his glass and shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m happy for them. They have quite the story.” 

“Gonna steal it for one of your books?” 

Bill considers it. “Maybe. It has a g-g- a good ending for once.” 

“Sometimes things have good endings,” Richie says. “I think that’s what you miss in your obsession with ‘realism’ or whatever. Sometimes things work out, in real life.” 

Bill looks at him, amused. “Are you familiar with my work?”

“I’ve seen the movies.” Richie throws back the rest of his drink and reaches for the bottle again. “I mean, look at us. Everything worked out. Against all odds, none of us died. We defeated evil, literally. That’s a pretty fucking happy ending.”

Bill laughs, but it’s dark. “Yeah, you sound happy about it.” 

Richie shrugs. It’s not often that he wants to talk about something serious—without joking, without deflecting—but when he does, he finds it as hard to shut his mouth as always. The whiskey probably doesn’t help. So, he says, “I keep thinking it’s my fault, Bill. Before we went down there, when he was saying he couldn’t do it, I encouraged him. Like a shitty pre-game pep talk, I was like, you got this, man. ‘You’re braver than you think.’ Total bullshit. And I keep thinking, if I didn’t say that to him, maybe he wouldn’t have– wouldn’t have tried to– when I was…” Richie wonders why he’s having trouble speaking until he realizes he’s run out of air. His breaths come in short and shallow huffs that remind him of Eddie before he reaches for his inhaler. Bill’s hand is on his shoulder, tight and reassuring. 

“Richie, any one of us could have been hurt down there,” Bill says. “And if it’s your fault, then it’s m-my fault, too, for yelling at him when he froze up. And B- and Bev’s fault for giving him the fence stake.”

“Yeah,” Richie says with a bitter laugh. “You’re right. It’s all of our fault.” 

“Hey, come on, man.” Bill’s voice is firmer now, more stern than comforting. “Eddie never wanted to be treated any differently. He’s not weak.” 

“I know, Bill. I _know_. I’m not saying that.” 

“He doesn’t need to be protected,” Bill continues. “You remember how his mother always was–” 

“I’m not like her, alright?” Richie snaps and shrugs his shoulder away from Bill’s hand. “Jesus fucking Christ. I can’t be upset about my friend almost dying without you fucking guilt-tripping me–”

“Richie, I’m not…” Bill pauses, looking at Richie with concern and confusion. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t…”

Richie doesn’t say anything, holding his head in his hands, elbows on the bar. He takes a few deep breaths. 

Finally Bill says, “Maybe we should go to bed.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Richie says from behind his hands. 

Bill sits next to him for another few minutes, quietly, before he sighs and stands up. “Goodnight, Richie.”

A couple days later, the Losers sit around Mike’s library-attic home, helping him clean and pack. He put in notice yesterday so now he has the daunting task of sorting through and whittling down a couple decades’ worth of junk, but it’s cathartic work for all of them. 

They haven’t returned to the hospital, but they’ve called a few times only to find that Eddie’s condition hasn’t changed. Bill is starting to get restless; his phone calls with his wife, Audra, and his boss, Andy, have been growing in volume and intensity (that’s how the rest of them learned their names) as he struggles to explain why he can’t return home yet. 

“You can go if you need to,” Richie says after Bill returns from another poorly concealed phone call with Audra. He tosses a crumpled receipt into the Trash pile, only for Mike to get up, un-crumple it so he can read it, then nod and return it to the pile. Just their luck that he’s a borderline hoarder. “I’m sure Eddie would understand.”

Bill looks at him, eyes narrowed. They’re _fine_ , but Richie hasn’t let all the tension fully evaporate. It feels good to have an external target.

“No,” Bill says, sighing as he sits down on the floor, cross-legged, to start sorting through Mike’s books and magazines. “It’s fine. I’m gonna sst-stay until he wakes up. Can’t claim victory quite yet.” 

“Leave no Loser behind,” Ben adds with a smile, oblivious to Richie’s attempted power play. 

They keep picking through Mike’s things, sorting into Trash, Donate, and Keep piles, and setting aside a few keepsakes for themselves, too. Strips of photo booth pictures from the arcade. A couple dog-eared comic books that Mike borrowed from Richie or Ben and never returned, their names still printed child-neat on the inside covers. Richie spends a long time flipping through Mike’s record collection, having volunteered for the task.

“You’re so cool, Mike,” Richie says. “I can just see it. You bringing a lady up here, putting on a little Marvin Gaye, lighting candles.” 

Mike laughs but it’s tense enough that Richie guesses there wasn’t a whole lot of _that_ going on. 

A couple hours later, while they’re arguing about where to go for lunch—it seems like everybody has trauma-bonded with Chinese food, and Richie isn’t having it—Mike’s cell phone rings. Immediately, the air is sucked out of the room. The smiles fall from their faces. Mike looks at the screen, brow furrowed. “Oh, it’s… Hello?”

“You gotta stop doing that shit, man,” Richie mumbles. “Just say who it is.” 

In another moment, Mike says, “That’s great. Thank you. We’ll be there soon,” and hangs up. “Eddie’s awake. And he wants to see us.”

On the short ride to the hospital, Richie can’t talk himself out of being nervous. Eddie is awake, which is great news, and he wants to see the Losers, which puts his fear of being forgotten to rest, but… For some reason, he can’t shake the idea that Eddie will be upset, that he’s calling them to the hospital just to yell at them for nearly getting him killed. And Richie _knows_ that’s ridiculous, Eddie would never do that, but still. He’s sick with nerves. 

It builds with each step through the hospital until it’s pounding in his ears. He’s so distracted by his own panic that he almost doesn’t notice Myra when she passes them in the hallway, but at the last second, his eyes catch on her. She rushes past them, pointedly looking away. Face blotchy and angry, she’s obviously been crying but she holds her head with dignity and Richie knows in an instant, like some law of the universe: he’s terrified of her. 

But when they reach Eddie’s room, he realizes he might be more scared of this. He takes a deep breath and follows his friends in. 

When he finally sees Eddie, his heart collapses like the house on Neibolt Street. It’s relief, and something horrible finally come to an end. No fear to prop it up anymore. 

Eddie lays in the hospital bed, half reclined, and hooked up to an IV and oxygen and he looks pallid and tired, cheekbones drawn and eyes dark. But he manages a smile and a soft, “Hey, guys,” as the Losers crowd around him. 

“Oh my _god_ , Eddie,” Ben says through a wide, emotional smile, gripping his wrist. Everyone else follows suit, touching him for proof that he’s real, but their gushing stays at a low volume, matching Eddie’s energy. 

Richie’s not sure what he’s saying—he thinks a couple apologies slip in—and his hand falls on Eddie’s shoulder and runs down his arm. Eddie feels solid and warm, and Richie holds onto him harder than he should. Briefly, Eddie looks up and meets his eyes, overwhelmed as he glances between his friends. 

“We have more good news,” Bill says after their initial greetings. “We talked to Stanley a couple days ago. He survived.” 

Eddie’s eyebrows knit together and he swallows. When he speaks, his voice is weak and husky. “Wow, that’s… that’s great.” 

“Lucky seven,” Mike muses.

“I think your wife hates us,” Richie blurts, then kicks himself. ( _Time and place, Tozier._ )

But Eddie just smiles. “She wasn’t happy when I asked to see you guys. She’ll come around. I mean, all she knows right now is that you almost got me killed, so…”

Richie crosses his fingers. “Better luck next time.” 

He doesn’t even know why he’s joking like this, about something that’s reminded him for the first time in years how _physical_ emotional pain can feel, but apparently the coping mechanism runs deeper than he thought. His friends throw him alarmed looks—the nonverbal version of a ‘beep beep’—but Eddie starts chuckling.

His shoulders shake against the pillow, breath coming in raspy huffs. “Fuck, don’t make me laugh, Richie. It _hurts_.” 

Richie’s hand returns to his shoulder, fingertips brushing the skin where the fabric of his hospital gown is loose around his collarbone. “Sorry. I’ll try to stop being so funny.” 

There are a few more minutes of quiet conversation. Eddie asks what’s next for everyone. Bill will be on the first flight to L.A., to ensure that he doesn’t lose his job—or his wife. Ben will accompany Bev back to New York to begin her divorce proceedings, then soon after, they’re off to Ben’s home base in Chicago. Mike will leave Derry in a week or so, after he’s finished packing up his space and finding a replacement for the library. And Richie… 

When the eyes fall on him, he shrugs. “I dunno. I think I’m gonna stay for a while. Help Mike. Keep you company.” He nudges Eddie’s arm, earning another smile. “See if I can turn on the charm with Myra.” 

“Good luck with that one,” Eddie mutters. 

Bev, smiling sweetly, asks, “What’s next for you, Eddie?” 

“Well.” Eddie looks down at his legs stretched in front of him, blanket-covered, half a funeral shroud. He folds his hands across his lap. “As of now, I don’t have any feeling in my legs. So, that might… be a thing. I’ll be here for a while longer still. Transfer back to a hospital in New York when I’m stable enough. So I can, you know, be closer to my family. The kids are with Myra’s sister right now. They might fly out here depending on how long it will be… So. Yeah, probably a long road ahead.” 

Everyone is silent for a horrible moment. Finally, Bill breaks it by saying, “Shit, I’m sorry, Eddie.” The rest of them echo it weakly. 

“Thanks. It is what it is, I guess. I think– I’m sorry.” His eyes are shiny and he brings his hand to his temples, covering his eyes. His shoulders begin to shake, like they did when he was laughing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, can you guys give me a minute?” 

Bev reaches for Eddie’s arm, cooing some comforting sound, but he pulls away from her.

“I just need a moment,” he snaps. “Please.” 

The rest of the Losers exchange a look. Mike says, “Sure, no problem,” and they all start backing away. 

“Richie,” Eddie says then, eyes still covered. “Stay.” 

“Okay.” Richie’s heart leaps into his throat. “Sure, bud.” He pulls up a chair to his bedside, returning his friends’ bewildered looks as they leave the room. 

As soon as they’re alone, Eddie starts sobbing in earnest. “I’m sorry,” he manages, wet and raw and muffled behind his hands. “Fuck, this hurts. _Fuck_. I’m sorry.” 

“No, it’s okay,” Richie says, feeling lost and useless. He places a hand on Eddie’s knee only to remember that he can’t _feel_ that, and he swallows the lump building in his throat. “It’s a lot to- to process… but you’ll walk again, I don’t–” 

Eddie shakes his head. “It’s just– My dad– My dad died when I was Frank’s age. And if I– I could never have forgiven myself.” 

“Hey.” Richie feels the hot tears streaking down to his neck before he realizes he’s crying, and he clutches Eddie’s arm, above his elbow. “I could have never forgiven you, either. Or myself.” He drops his head against Eddie’s thigh and lets out a few sobs of relief and anguish. Eddie shifts to hold Richie’s hand, grip fierce and painful, and after a moment Richie feels his other hand in his hair. “God, I’m so sorry, Eds. I’m so fucking sorry. If you didn’t have to save my ass–” 

“No, man, don’t say that. I would do it again. I would always do it.” His fingers tighten in Richie’s hair and for a minute or two, Richie breathes raggedly against the hospital blanket and against Eddie’s leg. He thinks how bad this hurts, to feel something this deeply, and he’s not the one with a hole in his chest. But he’s also not the one on intravenous pain meds. God, he could go for some of that right now. He’s about to make that joke out loud when he hears someone clear her throat. 

Richie snaps his head up to see Myra standing in the doorway, looking much more composed than when he passed her in the hall earlier, not to mention much more composed than Richie looks at the moment. He stands up and scrubs at his face. “I’ll, uh… Well. I should leave you to… I’ll see you later.”

“Thanks, Richie,” Eddie says, voice calm now. He lays back against the pillows with a wince and doesn’t wipe his tear-streaked face. He looks exhausted for someone who’s just slept for five days straight, eyes already slipping shut. “Make sure the others come say goodbye before they leave, alright?”

Richie promises to do so and maneuvers around Myra, offering a small and unreturned smile, to leave the room.

Richie finds the rest of the Losers gathered in the waiting room, draped over furniture and against each other. When he approaches, they all sit up, straight and alert. Bev asks, “How is he?”

“He’s…” Richie’s eyes prick again but he blinks it away. “He’s fine, I think he just had to… let out something.” He gets sad and understanding nods in return. “He wants you all to say goodbye before you leave.”

They do. Bill first, later that night, gently rustling Eddie from sleep, to exchange subdued goodbyes, under Myra’s scrutiny. Bev and Ben the next day, flanking his bedside and being good sports about his affectionate teasing. (“Ben, you should write a book about how to get the girl. Step one, write her a haiku. Step two, wait twenty-seven years.”) Then a week later, Mike. He finds someone to take his post at the library, loads his car with what he can carry, and says goodbye to Eddie with a gentle shoulder-pat and a promise to call often.

Then it’s just Richie. He’s still staying at the Townhouse, and at this point, he’s actually met the housekeeper and received some fresh towels. The housekeeper, one Mrs. Lehmann, is either forty or eighty, and moves very slowly and deliberately, and wears chunky felted sweaters. If Richie wasn’t pretty sure It was dead—hadn’t crushed its heart in his own hand—he would suspect that Mrs. Lehmann is another one of its personas. But turns out she’s just eccentric and a bit creepy, and people are like that sometimes, without any sinister reason for it. 

Richie spends his days milling around Derry. He walks through the quaint downtown and looks through the dusty antique shops and passes by his old house, finding some kind of appreciation for the streets and storefronts. Maybe it feels different now; or maybe it’s the same as it’s always been and he’s different. One morning, earlier than he ever wakes up and gets moving without external motivation, he walks along the road that skirts the Barrens until the covered bridge stretches out in front of him. Richie considered this location earlier, when they were tasked with recovering their memories, but he hasn’t paid it a visit yet. When he saw Eddie again, one of the first things he remembered was carving their initials here. But Richie didn’t visit while he was looking for his token because, for one thing, he already remembered what happened here with burning clarity, and two, honestly, he was worried about running into one of his friends here. It’s a significant place for a few of them, at least Ben. And Richie, the coward, didn’t want to have to explain this. So he re-traumatized himself elsewhere, and he’s glad he did. He’s glad he didn’t let Pennywise get a piece of this. This is all his.

And that’s how it felt as a kid, too, kneeling here and glancing over his shoulder to ensure he was alone. It was about Eddie, sure, but really it was about Richie’s own feelings that he didn’t know what to _do_ with, or how to externalize. So, yeah. Vandalism. What else does a thirteen-year-old boy do with his emotions? He smiles at the thought and crouches by the fence—his knees protest painfully, as if he needs more reminders he’s not young anymore—and he uses a pocketknife to trace over the letters again.

Forty-year-old Richie doesn’t totally understand what drove his young self to this action. It was oddly poetic, for a kid who was not known for saying beautiful things. It was quiet and private, for a kid who was loud and never alone. Honestly, forty-year-old Richie doesn’t totally understand his young self. But he pays tribute now, by carving this memory deeper so it might last another twenty-seven years.

It’s not that Richie doesn’t love Eddie anymore. He does and probably always has and probably always will. But now it’s a comfortable, broken-in kind of love that he’s carried inside for decades. He’s learned how to live with it, even when he couldn’t recognize it. It’s no longer something clawing at his insides that needs to escape.

Of course, Richie spends a lot of time at the hospital, too. He makes a few strides toward winning over Myra by never showing up empty handed—he brings food and good coffee and books that he inherited from Mike—and by mostly keeping his mouth shut. He discovers that Eddie might be one of those people who loves being fought over for attention (okay, it’s not _that_ much of a revelation) because he seems perfectly content to sit and let Myra and Richie say passive aggressive things to each other. Myra doesn’t leave the room often, and she _never_ leaves Richie alone with him. 

But, really, Richie knows he’s the winner of this situation. Eddie wants him here, so Myra just has to deal. ( _Ha. Suck it, Myra_.)

Eddie spends his time watching TV or reading or talking to his kids on the phone—this is the happiest he gets but also, as soon as he hangs up, the most melancholy—or grumpily submitting to physical therapy. For a long time, more than a week after he wakes up, it doesn’t look like Eddie will regain the feeling in his legs.

But then, slowly, he does. First, he can move a toe, whole face screwed up with effort and the pain of feeling. 

There’s a lot of hubbub surrounding this development. The doctors are excited and Eddie looks overwhelmed and relieved and Richie gets all of the Losers on a group call to share the news. They chat for a while then, the conversation shifting to other topics, and Richie doesn’t even notice that Myra left the room until he hangs up. 

Eddie doesn’t comment on it. His face is creased and his expression that brand of happy-exhausted that he wears so often. 

Richie asks him, “What do you want for your celebratory dinner?” 

Eddie thinks about it. “Chinese?”

“Why does everyone want to eat Chinese? I swear to god. Okay, okay, fine, it’s your day. No fortune cookies, though. I’ll be right back.” 

As he leaves through the waiting room, he spots Myra sitting in a chair by the window and miserably sniffling into a tissue. Richie pauses, weighing his lifetime of karma and whether or not he considers himself to be a fundamentally _good_ person and—he approaches her. Maybe he’s not wanted, but at the moment he understands her so much that his chest aches. He understands how, when things have been so hard for so long, good news can break you apart. 

“Hey,” he says, drawing it out, awkward and casual and hopefully nonthreatening. He slumps down in the chair next to her. She doesn’t look at him but she doesn’t get up and leave, or tell him to fuck off, and Richie considers that the Myra version of welcoming him with open arms. “Your husband is the strongest guy I know, alright? He’s gonna kick this thing’s ass. Sheer willpower alone.” 

Richie knows it’s bullshit, he’s not an idiot, but for a brief moment he thinks if anyone can overcome a spinal cord injury by the force of will, it’s Eddie Kaspbrak. Myra is still crying, harder than before. Tentatively, he places a hand on her back and half-pats, half-rubs. He’s surprised when she doesn’t flinch away. 

“I’m really sorry this happened,” he says, meaning it. “Don’t blame him. You can… you can blame me, if you need to blame someone.” 

She says, “Oh, I do.” But it’s not entirely mean. There might even be a bite of sharp humor hiding under her tears. She still doesn’t move away from him or tell him to fuck off. So Richie keeps rubbing her back. 

—

In L.A., Richie finally clears out his email inbox without reading them and deletes his voicemails without listening to them, and he calls his agent. Only to discover that his agent has dropped him. Apparently, Richie broke his contract a few times over by disappearing for a month and not calling. So, after Steve hangs up on him, and after Richie screams into a pillow, he makes a few more calls to agencies that tried to snipe him over the years while he was remaining stupidly loyal to Steve. But it seems like word travels fast in this town. Suddenly everyone is ‘at capacity,’ and ‘needs to devote their attention to their current clients.’ 

“Save me the bullshit,” he snaps at somebody’s secretary before he hangs up. He throws his phone to the carpeted floor, and makes a strangled, frustrated noise as he bites down hard on the heel of his hand. “ _Fuck!_ ”

He’s really taken his career for granted the past ten years. And now he might not have one. 

Richie didn’t leave Derry until Eddie did. After three weeks, he was stable enough to move to a hospital in New York, and then return home after that. Eddie’s eyes were sad and serious when Richie said goodbye. Eddie asked what was next for him, and Richie said he’s going back to L.A. Because where else would he go? 

Now that he’s back home, Richie is starting to think Mike had the right idea. He has an idle fantasy about selling his stupid house and packing up his car with what he can carry and driving across the country, all the way to New York, maybe. There’s nothing stopping him.

Spurring these fantasies, is the fact that Eddie has been calling him regularly. Sometimes at night when he can’t sleep, he’ll call Richie at 2am his time and 11pm Richie’s time and talk for an hour about nothing. Or while Eddie suffers through physical therapy, which is slow and painful and boring, he calls Richie just to take his mind off it. When Eddie calls during P.T., his voice is strained, pain-pitched, and breathing labored. He must have the call either on speaker or playing through earbuds; Richie doesn’t know which and he’s never asked. Once, while Eddie was breathing particularly hard and swearing more than usual, Richie joked, “This is the world’s worst phone sex.” Eddie laughed, then swore again. “Fuck, laughing still hurts.” 

Mostly, Richie distracts him with an endless parade of impressions. None of it is that funny, just dumbass shit to take Eddie’s mind off relearning to walk. (“I took four steps today,” Eddie tells him once. “And nearly collapsed. Like a fucking toddler.”) Richie will put on Arnold Schwarzenegger and tell Eddie about the contents of his fridge (all he has is half a jar of olives and mayonnaise and Eddie assures him he’s a lost cause). Or he’ll pull out his mediocre Obama to tell a story about the barista who was rude to him that morning. 

“My physical therapist is a fucking dick,” Eddie complains one night, not during P.T. This is during one of the late-night calls. It’s nearly 3am in New York. Richie wonders vaguely where he is. He must be in bed. By the sound of it, he can’t get out of bed by himself. He wonders where Eddie’s wife is, if not in bed next to him. “He’s like. So upbeat and positive. It makes me want to puke or… knee him in the balls. If I had the motor skills I would. He’s probably… twenty-three. Wears fucking yoga pants. Fucking… Lululemon, or some shit. Like, dude, are you even qualified?”

The next time Eddie calls, during normal daylight hours, Richie jumps right into his Rocky training montage bit, but Eddie says, “I’m not doing P.T. right now. Can you be yourself for a minute?” 

Richie slows. “Yeah. What’s up?” 

“I just… I’m really… having a hard time, man.” His voice wavers, but he comes back from the brink. “I’m just– this fucking sucks, like I can’t go back to work yet. I’m going insane. I’m home all the time. Myra is home all the time– and you know, she’s taking care of me, she’s a nurse, she’s qualified, but it’s like… I keep asking her to hire some outside help, I… feel so smothered. Which is shitty to say, I know, but… She’s… helping me use the bathroom, you know? She hired someone for three days and then fired them, I think she just doesn’t trust anybody else to take care of me. But god, I need someone else around here just to fucking talk to… And she should get out of the house more. And the kids, at least they’re back in school now so they’re not home as much, but they’re freaked out. They don’t even like to come into the bedroom to see me, it’s like they’re scared. I mean, I can’t blame them, there’s all this fucking equipment in here, it’s like a fucking hospital. And it sucks, and I feel shitty feeling bad and I feel shitty unloading all of this on you, but I can’t say this to Myra. And obviously I’m ridiculously lucky to even be alive, but goddamn it. It’s just so fucking hard, man.” 

Eddie’s voice breaks again and his breathing takes on the pattern of crying, but Richie can’t be sure. He feels close himself and when he speaks, it breaks and spills over. “Hey, I’m so sorry. That’s all… it’s so fucking shitty. But don’t feel bad about feeling bad, okay? I’m here for you. You can always talk to me.” 

On the other end of the line, Eddie just breathes. “I’m sorry. Thanks for… thanks for listening.” He’s quiet for a long moment, then sighs. “How are you, anyway?” 

“Things aren’t going so hot for me either,” Richie admits, but with wry humor. “Apparently ghosting my agent for a month constitutes a breach of contract, so I got dumped and no one else will fucking represent me. Which, I mean, fair. You can do this shit when you’re a big shot, but I have a garbage, dead-end career and I’m a flight risk, so. Yeah.” He shrugs. He’s way past the kicking-and-screaming stage of this. Now he feels numb to it. 

“Shit. I’m sorry, man,” Eddie says. “Do you… need an agent? Like, in order to work? I don’t… know how your job works.” 

Richie smiles, but he feels something splinter in his heart. “Yeah, sort of. I mean, I’m sure I could find someone to rep me if I really started scraping the bottom of the barrel, but I don’t know if I want to, man. I’m just… tired.” 

Eddie huffs a quiet, sad laugh. “Yeah, I know that feeling. What are you gonna do?” 

“I don’t know,” Richie says, “Sabbatical, maybe. Take a year. Travel. Eat, pray, love. Run my savings into the ground, that kind of thing.”

“Well. If you’re ever in New York,” Eddie starts then stops. “If you’re in New York, my guest room is always open, okay? I mean, we’re Long Island, but. If you can’t shell out for a hotel room. Run out your savings a little slower.” 

Richie’s heart starts thumping, his daydreams of cross-country travel roaring back. “Thanks, man,” he says finally, matching Eddie’s measured tone. “I might… I might take you up on that.”

—

In New York, Eddie claws his way through a slow recovery. He’s been working from home a couple days a week, as much as he can stand to, but he’s losing interest as time goes on, finding it harder to concentrate. He used to enjoy his job; it made him feel useful and competent. It’s not the same when he’s sitting in his gross bed, in his gross pajamas, getting literal bedsores, and trying to work on a laptop. He can’t stomach it. 

Instead, his schedule revolves around physical therapy, and Myra bringing him meals and helping him to the bathroom and helping him to the shower, where they have a seat and handrails installed now—and talking to Richie. That’s probably the best thing he has going for him at the moment. Some nights, Myra sleeps in the guest room down the hall, so Eddie has the first floor master bedroom to himself. Just him and the Sleep Number bed with two sides that can recline independently like a deluxe hospital bed—convenient that they already had it—and a flat screen TV, with the remote and his cell phone and a couple books and a box of Kleenex all within reach on the bedside table. Since he rests all day, he finds it hard to sleep at night. So, he calls Richie. The time difference from coast to coast helps. Who else would he call at 3am? 

But he doesn’t talk to only Richie. He talks to the other Losers more sporadically, a phone call here and there. With them, it’s more straightforward catching up. Where is Mike off to? Maybe Florida? How’s Bev coping with the divorce? How are Bill’s career and marriage faring after he disappeared for a week? How is Ben doing with returning to work, and returning home, no longer alone? And then Eddie tells them his latest physical therapy updates, dragging it out of his throat, careful about his tone. With Richie, he never does that. With Richie, he’s candid from the start, bitching about the pain and the tedium. Richie’s so good about it. He cuts his sympathy with a sardonic edge of humor, making it so much easier to swallow. 

Then there’s Stan. When Eddie talks to him, they almost never dwell on their respective recoveries. At least not the gritty details of it. Never ‘how many steps today?’ Never ‘does Patty let you shower with the door closed yet?’ Instead, they share their tips for conquering the all-consuming boredom. Stan is basically back to his job and life by now, but after an extended hospital stay followed by a home stay, he has a lot to say about the healing power of puzzles and podcasts. He summarizes every podcast he’s listened to in the past few weeks to Eddie, his voice alternating between a dry hum and bursts of animated excitement, when a particular detail strikes him. 

Eddie doesn’t know what Stan looks like all grown-up, so when they talk on the phone, he pictures that curly-haired little kid. Wiry and serious, all elbows and knees and unexpected dark jokes. 

“I’m so fucking bored, Stan,” Eddie complains one afternoon, letting his phone, on speaker, rest against his chest. 

Stan, who was an hour deep into recounting a true crime podcast he’s been listening to (the rant started with, “I don’t even like true crime, but…”), laughs. “Well, sorry, geez.” 

“No, not…” Eddie laughs too. “Not with your _very interesting_ story that I was _definitely following_ –”

“Uh huh.”

“–just with everything else. Life. The days are so long. Why are days so long?”

Stan is quiet for a beat. “You need something to work on. Something creative, okay?”

“Well, what I liked to do before– you know, work around the house and the yard or on our cars, I can’t do that anymore–”

“Find something else. Something to do with your hands.”

“Like what? Knitting or fucking whittling or something?” 

“There’s gotta be something. I promise it will make you feel better.” 

A couple days later, Myra brings Eddie a package addressed to him—return label: Stanley Uris, Atlanta, Georgia—that she has already opened. After Eddie asks her to please not open his mail, which she gets defensive about, she leaves it on the bed and goes away. 

The package includes a few items and each one makes Eddie’s smile grow wider. First, a pair of knitting needles and yarn. Then a smooth-handled whittling knife and a block of wood. And finally, a kit for a ship in a bottle. Eddie snorts and texts Stan immediately: _A ship in a bottle? I thought the idea was to make me less insane._

Stan replies, _A different kind of insane._

And that sounds pretty appealing to Eddie, actually, so he gives it a shot. That night, as he painstakingly follows the instructions in the included booklet and watches a few YouTube tutorials, Eddie is surprised to find he enjoys it. Stan was right. He gets lost in the work and it’s finicky enough that he doesn’t have space to think about much else and that’s perfect. When Myra comes to bed, he stays up working by the light clamped onto the headboard, gluing the little toothpick masts together and tying strings and painting the tiny hull. An hour into it, Myra’s half of the bed raises, the motor whirring, and she looks at him.

“Eddie. I can’t sleep with the light on. Are you almost done?”

Eddie looks back at her, incorrigible, with his overused, ‘I don’t know what you’re upset about’ face. “I’m just trying to finish this.”

“There’s always tomorrow.” The bed reclines again and she falls out of his peripheral vision.

Eddie keeps working and doesn’t turn off his light. At this point, ‘tomorrow’ is meaningless to him. After another few minutes Myra gets out of bed with a sigh and says she’s going to sleep in the guest room. Eddie hums, distracted. He works longer, until the ship is done, and tries collapsing it and pulling the strings to make sure it will work. Then, finally, bleary-eyed, he falls asleep. 

In the morning, a Saturday, Myra comes in to check on him and he’s already wide awake and wired. He tells her to get the kids for ‘the bottling of the ship.’ She blinks, but doesn’t say anything, and returns a few minutes later with pajama-clad Charlotte and Frank in tow. 

The kids linger behind Myra in the doorway to the bedroom for a moment, looking at their dad, and at the handrail installed to help Eddie pull himself up, and at the wheelchair by the side of the bed. Their nervous glances remind Eddie of himself, when, toward the end, he visited his dad at the hospital and he would hide behind his mom. He was around the same age his son is now. But Eddie will get through this. This won’t be the way his children remember him.

Eddie smiles warmly and beckons them to jump up onto the bed. “Come on, I need your help with something.”

Charlotte leads the charge, her brother following, and they’re already giggling and smiling as they land on their knees, bouncing on the mattress. Eddie shows them the tiny boat he constructed last night, glue setting while he caught a few hours of sleep. The masts and sails are folded down, and the whole thing is rigged up with strings. Eddie has his tweezers and the bottle and he’s ready for the grand finale. 

“Okay, Charlie, Frank,” he begins. “First things first, we need to name this boat.” 

Frank immediately says, “Mr. Boat,” and Charlie clarifies, “Mr. Bob Boat,” with a laugh. Frank continues riffing with, “Billy-Bob Boat.” 

“Boats are usually… she’s, but, yeah. That’s perfect. Mr. Bob Boat.” Eddie writes the name across the hull of the ship with a fine-pointed sharpie. “And now we…” He takes the bottle, where he’s already glued a stand onto the bottom, and fits the ship carefully through the neck, folding in the sails as needed. 

To their credit, his kids seem mildly entertained. 

Once the ship is nestled onto its stand and glued in place, Eddie says, “This is the exciting part.” And that’s an overstatement but the kids lean in with renewed interest. Eddie begins pulling at the strings to right the masts inside the bottle. It’s not as quick and dramatic as he would have hoped. Like every other part of the process, it’s tedious and painstaking, but he tugs on each of the strings until the masts are upright and the sails are full, and then he trims the strings with a special long pair of scissors that came in the kit. 

When it’s done, he lets Charlie hold the bottle, rolling the ship through imaginary waves. A typical sibling squabble follows as Charlie holds it out of her brother’s grasping reach. Smiling, Eddie gets out of his bed and into his chair, with some help from Myra, so he can join his family at the kitchen table for breakfast. 

It’s the first week in November when Richie calls. This in itself is noteworthy, since Eddie usually initiates their phone calls. But he’s not doing anything, so he answers. “Hey, Richie.” 

“Hey, Eddie.” He sounds distracted, distant. “So, I’m eat-pray-loving my way east.” 

Eddie smiles, anticipating where this is going. “East as in, like, Thailand?”

“East as in Long Island. Is the offer of your guest room still on the table? Bear in mind, I’ve been unemployed for three months.” 

Eddie tells him of course the offer is still on the table and he’d love to have him, and Richie says, “Great. I’ll be there in time for your birthday.” 

This sets Eddie back for a second. They haven’t reminded each other of their birthdays since their reunion, so Richie must remember from when they were kids. But he doesn’t draw attention to it. Now that he thinks about it, he remembers Richie’s, too. “Yeah. That’ll be nice.”

Eddie’s physical therapist, Ryan, is actually twenty-six, but he does wear a lot of Lululemon. He arrives one late morning, after Myra returns from dropping the kids off at school. Eddie, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet dangling over the side, listens as Myra lets him in. As always, they waste the first ten minutes with pleasant chatter. Myra asks him if he wants anything—water? coffee? tea?—and he politely declines and asks about the kids. He acts like it’s been such a long time, now that they’re down to weekly sessions. Finally, the two work their way to the threshold of the bedroom, hovering just inside of it, as Myra emphatically asks him about his DPT program at BU, her hand on his arm. They’ve discussed this before but now someone she vaguely knows—a friend’s nephew or whoever—is thinking about applying. 

Eventually Eddie, feeling neglected, says, “Well, are we gonna get started?” 

They both turn to look at him, mouths frozen open in mid-conversation. After a moment, Myra says, “Okay. I’ll leave you to it.” 

A few weeks ago, they had a fight—in front of Ryan—about Myra staying in the room for his P.T. and how it makes Eddie feel ‘smothered.’ She’s sensitive about being called smothering, and Eddie knows that, but he used that word anyway. Eddie then had to sit in his bed and hear the two of them discuss his ‘emotional state’ in the hallway. They had barely bothered to lower their voices. 

Myra takes a step backward, out of the bedroom, but doesn’t leave before asking, “Do you need anything?” 

“I need to get my money’s worth for this session, okay?” Eddie says. “It’s fucking expensive.” 

Ryan gives him a strained, professional smile. “Of course, Mr. Kaspbrak.” 

Eddie loves when he gets Mr. Kaspbrak’d. He’s not the ‘please call me Eddie’ type. 

Ryan helps him to the parallel bars set up near the wall and Eddie stands between them, holding on with each hand. Before he begins, he plugs earbuds into his phone and slides it into his pocket. “Call Richie,” he says. As he takes his first few steps across the mat floor, gritting his teeth and sliding his hands down the bars, he listens to the call ring out. He gets Richie’s voicemail, which implores him to not leave a voicemail and ‘please just text me. Who calls?’ 

“Wait,” Eddie mutters, stopping his movement and grabbing his phone to end the call before it clicks over. He sways a little and Ryan hovers around him, ready to catch him. Eddie tries calling again and it rings out again. He ignores voicemail-Richie’s pleas and after the tone says, shortly, “Uh, hi. Call me back, if you get this. Thanks.” Then, in desperation, he pulls up some podcast Stan recommended and starts playing it. Still better than submitting to Ryan’s small talk. 

Later, after Ryan has left, Richie does call. Eddie is back in bed, working on a model ship and he accidentally snaps the mast in half in his fumble to answer the phone. “Hey,” he says, almost breathless. “Hi.”

“Sorry I missed you,” Richie says, his voice all the relief of cool water. “I was driving and my phone was on silent and I was totally in a trance. It’s Nebraska, you know. It’s either been three minutes or three hours. I think I passed this corn field already.” 

Eddie smiles and sinks back against the pillows. “Can you… tell me about it?” 

Richie falters for a moment, maybe in surprise, before he says, “Sure. Have you ever seen corn fields all the way to the horizon, Eds? Allow me to paint you a picture.”

The morning that Richie is due to arrive, Eddie begins to freak out because he’s a _mess_. His room is scattered with snacks and magazines and half-glued model ships. And he’s severely limited in his ability to clean up any of this himself, and Myra is out at the moment, dropping the kids off at school. He gets himself into his chair—Myra will scold him for doing so while she’s not home—and picks up the best he can. 

Early that afternoon, Richie pulls his car into the driveway and comes to the door, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Eddie has been waiting anxiously for a couple hours, getting the house in order and snapping at Myra more than he should, but he’s nervous. Richie smiles when he sees him and bends down to give him a hug, his shoulder bumping against Eddie’s chin. 

“Happy birthday, old man,” Richie says against his ear. 

Then he turns to Myra and does a good-natured little dance— _are we going in for a hug? no?_ — before shaking her hand. 

Eddie asks, “So, how was the drive?” 

“Great. Long.” Richie grins, tired and bright. “I took my time. Saw some sights. I have souvenirs!” He lifts his bag. “Are the kids…?”

“At school until three,” Myra supplies. 

“Ah, okay. I have souvenirs for you guys, too, but they’re not as fun.” 

Richie unpacks them around the kitchen table—the adult souvenirs are mostly magnets and kitschy shot glasses—and tells a few half-stories about his trip. A campground in New Mexico that was definitely haunted—he promises to tell the full story later—and he’s ninety-percent sure he saw a Thunderbird in the skies over Missouri. This sets them off arguing about cryptids and Eddie is pretty sure Richie is fucking with him, but he still gets worked up because _no, Richie, Mothman is definitely not real_. But _Eddie, what was Pennywise if not a cryptid?_ Before Eddie can sputter a response to that, Richie pulls up ‘video evidence’ of the Jersey Devil and he seems really convinced even though it’s an obvious hoax, and Eddie is seconds away from strangling him—and, God, it feels good to get worked up about something stupid. Eddie has been so lethargic lately, barely mustering the energy to get out of bed.

Myra lets them talk for a while without much comment, used to it from the hospital and the regular phone calls. She was understanding when Eddie asked if Richie could stay for a while. He asked her permission, kind of, but it was in a leading, I-already-told-him-yes way. And maybe Eddie is leaning on his fragile state to get what he wants, but he thinks that’s justified. He _really_ needs this. 

While Eddie gives a quick tour of the house, he’s struck by the sudden clarity of seeing his life through Richie’s eyes. Richie follows Eddie, hand on the back of his chair, not pushing but just resting there, eyes darting and commenting on things that have become part of Eddie’s landscape, unnoticed. Like, for instance, the fact that the decor has gone far beyond purple accents to just… purple. As the primary color scheme. Purple bed sheets and pillows and curtains and throw rugs. It was a slow, creeping invasion over the years, so Eddie hardly noticed it. Now, it’s all he can see.

Richie gets set up in the guest room, down the hall from the master bedroom and the kids’ bedrooms. The house is contained on a sprawling ground floor, plus a basement for storage, and Eddie is grateful for the floor plan now that his mobility is limited. It’s a nice suburban house on a cul-de-sac, with a small, private backyard and a few old shade trees. They’ve lived here for ten years. Eddie doesn’t notice the little details anymore, so when Richie says, “The ceilings are really high,” Eddie hums and glances up. “I guess they are.”

The tour continues when they poke their heads into the master bedroom. Eddie tries to be in and out quickly, but he rolls his chair right back into Richie’s thigh and Richie says, “Holy shit, what are all these?”

He’s referring to the ships-in-bottles, finished and in-progress, that sit on the bedside table and along the windowsill. Eddie sighs, but before he can begin to explain, Richie has stepped around him and inside the room to investigate. 

“What is… Wait.” Richie holds up one of the ships-in-progress, the masts glued but sails missing. “Do you build them outside of the bottle?” 

Eddie shrugs and rolls farther into the room. “Yeah.” 

“That seems like cheating.”

“How is it cheating? You still have to get them inside. You have to build them so they’re collapsible, there’s a whole technique to it…”

Richie looks unimpressed. “I thought you were building the entire thing inside the bottle with like, long tweezers.” 

Eddie snorts at the mental image. “No, dude. No.” 

“Bummer.” Richie keeps poking around at the finished ones, lifting them up and turning them upside down as if they’re snow globes. He smiles at Mr. Bob Boat. 

“Did I ruin the illusion for you?” Eddie asks. 

“Yeah. Childhood innocence gone. That was the last of it. What the clown left behind, you just crushed. Thanks for that, Eds.” 

“I’d love to take you to a magic show and explain all the tricks to you,” Eddie muses. 

Richie reels around, his reaction bigger than Eddie expected. “You know how they do tricks?” 

“Some of the big ones, yeah.” 

“Wow. You contain hidden depths.” Richie keeps looking around, moving around his space. It’s intimate, and Eddie finds the attention nearly unbearable, close to squirming in his seat. Richie picks up a book from his nightstand and reads the title with gravitas: “Great Lakes: Shipwrecks and Survivals.”

Eddie huffs, embarrassed but not wanting this to end for all the world. “I’ve kind of been on theme lately…”

Richie nods, flips through a few pages, and starts humming The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald. When it escalates to singing, he misses most of the lyrics but carries the tune well. 

“ _Send me on down from the Chippewa down…_ ”

“I don’t think that’s how it goes, Rich.” 

Myra leaves at 2:30 to pick up the kids from school; she won’t let them take the school bus home, but they’re still young, so Eddie hasn’t tried to push back on that yet. While she’s gone, Richie and Eddie sit at the kitchen table and chat. 

“Charlie is really imaginative. It’s amazing, she’ll play by herself for hours and have all these stories going. I used to sneak up on her and record videos before she caught onto it.” Smiling, Eddie pulls up one such video. Through an open bedroom door, Charlie—probably age four—arranges stuffed animals on her bed, all the while reciting a running monologue. Her voice lilts, the words unintelligible, but clearly it means something to her. 

“And Frank,” Eddie continues. “He’s a sweet kid, and he’s at a great age right now. He’s sort of a homebody, I can’t get him outside that much, to play in the yard or whatever. You know how we were growing up, you couldn’t keep us in the house with chains. But things are different now. Kids don’t really run wild. And, you know, it’s not as safe as it used to be–”

“Yeah, the word I would use to describe our childhood is _safe_.”

Eddie snorts. “You know what I mean. Anyway, he has grass allergies so it’s fine that he’s more of an indoors kid.”

“He’s allergic to grass? That sounds like the kind of thing your mom would have said when we were little.”

“And peanuts,” Eddie adds seriously, not reacting to Richie’s joke. “Like, really allergic to peanuts, so don’t bring anything–” 

“Oh, yeah, yeah, no doubt,” Richie says quickly, raising his hands. “Thanks for the heads-up. No PB and J’s. Got it.”

When the kids arrive, they first go through their enforced routine of hanging up their backpacks on hooks in the closet and putting their shoes on the mat, and it’s always like herding cats, even though it happens every day. Then they bound into the kitchen, only throwing a cursory glance at Richie, before they turn their attention to more important things. Specifically, an after school snack. 

“Hey, guys,” Eddie says, as they tear into Go-Gurts and fruit snacks, Myra supervising and enforcing the one-snack rule so they don’t ruin their dinner. “Guys,” Eddie says again, trying to get their attention, and shooting Richie a smile. “Come over here and say hi to my friend Richie.” 

They both come to the kitchen table, crawling onto chairs and crouching more than sitting. 

Richie smiles, seems to unconsciously lower himself, hunching so he’s at their level. “Hi Charlotte– or Charlie? Do you go by Charlie?” He doesn’t put on any kind of different voice, which is nice. Eddie’s kids are both too old for that nonsense, but he finds many adults without children default to a baby-voice anyway. 

Charlie nods. “Yeah.” She slurps the rest of the Go-Gurt, hands free. 

“And Frank,” Richie says, turning to him. “What’s up, man? Are you in… kindergarten?”

He nods, mouth full of fruit snacks. Then he opens his mouth to reveal the mashed-up glob on his tongue and says, “Ahhh,” like he’s at the doctor getting his throat checked. That’s one way to answer the question. 

“Hey, come on,” Eddie says, tapping the table in front of him. “One at a time, okay?” 

Richie, chuckling, reaches to the floor to grab the rest of his souvenirs from his bag. “Okay, so, I drove here all the way from California. And I brought you some things. I hope you like them. I don’t really know what kids like.” He says this last bit to Eddie, the kids already reaching over the table to inspect the gifts. 

It’s a wide variety of knick-knacks, picked up from gift shops and tourist-trap gas stations along the journey. Charlie hoards the little plastic animals immediately, lining them up on the table in front of her. Frank favors the small collection of novelty toys and treats, including a finger trap, a Jacob’s ladder, and candy cigarettes.

Richie seems to anticipate the complaint about the candy cigarettes and snatches them back. “Whoops. These are more for the adults. Why are you looking at me like that? Do you remember these? They taste _good_. They’re _candy_.” 

Eddie just laughs, shaking his head. 

While Myra starts working on dinner, there’s some mandatory together-time for the family, so Charlotte brings her art supplies out of her bedroom and to the kitchen table. She’s working on some illustrated story about horses, an extensive array of colored pencils, crayons and markers spread before her.

“What’s going on here?” Richie asks, pointing to a horse that’s sprawled on the ground, looking worse-for-wear.

She says, matter-of-factly, “The mom horse was attacked by a mountain lion.”

Richie’s eyes widen. “Oh, wow. That’s too bad.”

Myra glances up, frowning. “It’s the nature documentaries she watches. She loves this one about wild horses, she won’t stop watching it.”

“You wanna see how I draw blood?” she asks Richie.

Richie exchanges a look with Eddie and Eddie rolls his eyes fondly. Richie says, “Yeah, obviously.”

“You start with crayon…” She takes a red crayon and colors over the horse’s torso. “Then you do marker on top.” 

It’s actually a good technique, giving the appearance of a messy scab, but with the wetness of fresh blood. “Whoa,” Richie says. “That’s so cool. You figured this out yourself?”

“Yeah.”

Frank plays with the Jacob’s ladder for a long time, with the kind of tactile fascination that’s unique to children. Richie tries to show him how it works, but he’s content to stack and unstack the blocks over and over. When Myra has the chicken in the oven, she sets the kids loose. Charlotte goes back to her room, packing up her art supplies, and Frank gets his one wish in life which is to watch Paw Patrol. He sits on the floor directly in front of the TV, and the adults join him in the living room. Eddie wheels up to the couch and places his slippered feet firmly on the ground, about to hop over, when Richie swoops in behind him.

“You good?” he asks, hands hovering near Eddie’s arms. 

“Yeah, fine,” Eddie huffs, but when he starts to lift himself up, Richie steadies him with a hand on his waist. His grip tightens as Eddie takes a couple steps and turns to sit down on the couch.

“He tries to do everything himself,” Myra says, directed to Richie. That’s a first. Eddie looks back and forth between them, bewildered by the sudden rapport, as Richie smiles fondly and says, “That’s Eddie for you.” Myra agrees. 

“Can you not talk about me like I’m not here?” Eddie grumbles, but he can’t muster up much bite. 

“Do you hear something?” Richie asks, and Myra smiles. He plops down in the center of the couch next to Eddie. This leaves Myra to sit on the other end. As an episode of Paw Patrol plays out in front of his unfocused eyes, Eddie thinks that this is a weird situation. Maybe he’s late with that realization, but it’s hitting him hard now. He’s bringing two completely separate halves of his life together and he expected Myra to be uncomfortable and he expected Richie to be uncomfortable, but what he didn’t expect was for the two halves to find a way to mesh. And that leaves Eddie confused more than anything. He can process his life in Derry and he can process his life after Derry, separately. He hasn’t yet found a way to bring the two together into one coherent narrative. With a creeping sense of dread, he thinks now he’s forced himself to do just that. 

After the episode ends, Richie asks, “So… where’s the troll?” 

Eddie turns to him, mouth twisted in amusement. “The troll?”

“Yeah, isn’t it called Papa Troll?” 

After a beat, Eddie laughs hard enough that he doubles over slightly. It still hurts to laugh like this, his chest caving in. He manages to rasp out, “No, _Paw… Patrol_.” 

At that moment, Richie bursts into laughter, too, until Frank dramatically shushes them. “Sorry,” he says, fighting to contain his laughter. While the next episode begins, Richie asks Eddie and Myra, in a low voice, “You guys wanna hear my ghost story? From my trip?”

Myra glances to Frank, on the floor in front of them. “He scares easily.”

But Eddie shakes his head. “He’s not paying attention to us. And, Richie, if you freak him out, you have to stay with him until he falls asleep tonight, okay?” 

Richie promises to do so and starts his story. “So, I was staying at a campground in New Mexico–”

That’s as far as he gets before Eddie’s first interruption. “You camp?” 

Richie blinks. “Sure. I’ve been known to camp. I mean, whatever. I packed a tent. I camped. I’m trying to save some money, alright? I’m well on my way to becoming broke, remember? Anyway, I was camping. Before I go to sleep, it’s dark and I stumble to the campground bathroom—never a good place to be, by the way, they’re always these concrete bunkers—and I’m in one stall. I’m there for a while, okay, I’m–” Richie glances at Frank and then lowers his voice, “–I’m taking a shit.”

“Thanks for the detail,” Eddie says, deadpan. “I’m really envisioning this.”

“Yeah, no problem. So, I’m there for a while, in a stall, and I’m sure I’m alone. You know how it is, you’ve been in bathrooms, you know when you’re alone. But then… the toilet next to me flushes. So I think– that’s odd, but whatever. This guy was quiet. Then I hear the sink running. Normal progression of events. But I realize… I don’t think I heard a door open in between. I don’t think I heard footsteps.”

Eddie feels his throat constrict with the first brush of fear. “Shit,” he murmurs.

“It gets worse,” Richie assures him. “After that, the toilet flushes _again_.” 

Myra’s eyes are wide, watching Richie. She’s lived a life less acquainted with the supernatural than Richie or Eddie—unless she’s keeping _a lot_ of secrets—and Eddie doesn’t know if this would make the story more or less scary. But he suspects less. It’s easier to brush off these things when you can cling to the assumption that the world is a fundamentally rational place. Once that illusion breaks, there’s no going back.

Richie continues, “I leave the stall and I look at the one next to me. There’s, like, three stalls. The one to my right, where the sound came from, the door is closed. I peek under the stall door–”

“ _Why_ did you do that?” Eddie asks, but he knows why. He would have done it, too. Sometimes you have to peek. 

“I don’t know, but I looked under, I don’t see anything. No feet. The door’s locked. From the inside, right? And, okay, the toilet flush is motion-activated–”

“Oh,” Myra says, all the apprehension draining from her features. “It just got triggered somehow.” 

“Yeah, I would like to think that, but the sink, okay? I _heard_ the sink.” 

“What did you do?” Eddie asks. 

Richie shrugs. “I left. I went back to my tent and I went to sleep. It didn’t really hit me how weird it was until the morning.”

“Hmm.” Eddie thinks for a moment, leaning back. “You know, the thing about that is, it’s worse if it’s a person. Like, some guy crouching on the toilet seat with his feet up… Slithering out under the stall door to turn on the sink and then crawling back in.”

“Eddie,” Myra and Richie say in near-unison. Myra’s face is back to an expression of horror. Richie dramatically shudders and whispers, “ _Slithering…_ ” 

“I’m just saying!” Eddie protests. “Forget ghosts. It’s scarier if it’s a person.”

After a long moment of silence, Richie jokes, “You were worried about Frank, but now I’m freaked out. I’m gonna need a night light.” 

Dinner is baked chicken breasts and neatly apportioned side dishes: steamed green beans, halved and roasted fingerling potatoes, fluffy dinner rolls and butter. Myra cuts up Frank’s food into smaller, bite-sized pieces, and the two wage a war over finishing his meal; the battle-lines are drawn at the green beans. 

“Oh, I forgot the wine,” Myra says, still working on Frank’s plate.

Eddie, already pulled up to the table, pushes back out, but Richie intervenes. He hops up and stands in the middle of the kitchen, hands raised and at the ready. “Just tell me what to do. I’m your avatar.”

“Okay…” Eddie begins directing him through finding the bottle of white wine, then the corkscrew, then the glasses. It’s an ordeal, and Eddie suspects Richie is being purposefully difficult. “The drawer by the oven. No. By the _oven_ , Richie. That’s the dishwasher. Okay, found it? Good. I hope I don’t have to walk you through how to open the bottle.” By the end of it, Eddie is laughing. “Can you put a couple ice cubes in mine?”

“No, I can’t,” Richie says. “You heathen.” 

“It’s my _birthday_. Just give me my fff–” Eddie catches himself, wide eyes meeting his daughter’s. He starts again with a more polite tone. “Give me my ice, please.” 

Richie, snickering, plops a couple ice cubes into Eddie’s glass, using his bare hands to do so. 

“There’s an ice scoop, Richie. What do you think it’s for?”

“I got ice scoops attached to my arms, baby.”

While they eat, Richie entertains them with a few stories about Eddie. When he broke his arm when they were kids and Richie snapped it back into place—all he says is that Eddie fell, a convenient omission—and when he patched up Ben in an alley behind the drugstore and when he mouthed off to a bully and got punched in the face. The sum of these stories is that Myra looks horrified. “You never told me any of this. Your home town sounds like a death trap.”

Eddie laughs darkly. “You have no idea.”

The conversation switches tracks for a while, to Richie’s career. Myra is either really interested in Richie’s work, or a better actress than Eddie thought. She gets him to admit that he has two Netflix stand-up specials, one of which was released shortly before he came to Derry. 

“And your agent dropped you?” Myra asks, frowning. 

“We had some issues prior to me fu– uh.” Richie’s eyes go wide and Eddie snorts. “Leaving town. But yeah. It kinda sucks.” 

Charlotte glances up, elated, and Myra says, “We don’t– uh. We don’t say that… word.”

“Sorry,” Richie says. “It kinda blows.”

Eddie laughs, feeling giddy and weightless. “That’s not better, Richie.” 

After dinner and before dessert, while Myra cleans up, Richie sprawls out on the living room floor with Frank and Charlie to create a lego masterpiece. For some reason, Richie starts using a Bronx accent to order them around, saying how they’re behind schedule on construction and the union is killing him. Eddie sits on the couch above, watching and laughing; when he jumps in as a Long Island real estate competitor, Richie stops everything to _laugh_ , laying on his back on the floor, hands holding his stomach as his whole body shakes. Eddie smiles, watching his face. Richie doesn’t really laugh that often. He’s got the composure of a professional comedian, keeping a straight face or at most a hungry smile while other people laugh. It’s like he feeds off it, but he doesn’t get much pleasure from it himself. So, Eddie loves seeing Richie drop that for a second, eyes closed and mouth open, frozen in pure joy. And Eddie _loves_ being the one who does that to Richie. 

Soon, Myra joins them, sitting on the couch beside Eddie. They watch the construction for a while; Richie mediates a workplace dispute when his two contractors disagree over using red versus blue legos and negotiates a compromise. Then Eddie’s phone lights up with an incoming FaceTime call from Bev. 

“Oh,” he says, answering. “Hey Bev.” Her face pops up and melts into a smile; the camera pulls back to reveal Ben sitting next to her in a sleek kitchen. Eyebrows raised, he waves at the camera. 

“Happy birthday!” Bev and Ben say in unison. 

Eddie’s face warms under the attention and he rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Thank you. Say hi to–” he turns his phone, “Myra, and–” he aims the camera down, “Charlotte and Frank.” 

The kids don’t really react, too engrossed in building their towers, but Ben says, “Holy shit, why is Richie there?” Bev whacks his arm, probably for swearing, and says, “I told you he was–”

Richie lunges to grab the phone from Eddie and lays back on the floor, holding it above him. “Thanks for calling.” He’s still in his Bronx accent. “I’m here with my guys on site and, look, these union rules are really setting us back. We’re at least a week behind schedule. Fellas–” He addresses the kids now, and turns the phone to face them. “I got Chicago on the line. Say hi.”

“Hi,” Charlie says, flashing a grin. 

Ben asks, “What are you building?” 

“Repartments,” Frank answers. 

“Apartments,” Charlie corrects. 

Eddie snorts. “Born real estate moguls.”

“Looks great,” Ben says seriously. “Nice balance. I like your use of vertical space. Sophisticated tapering technique.”

Richie directs the camera back at his own face. “But boss, we’re way behind schedule.” 

“I don’t care,” Ben says, laughing. “You’re fired.” 

“ _No!_ ” Richie throws the phone back to Eddie and rolls onto his stomach, letting out a few fake, melodramatic sobs. “This job is all I have!”

Charlie laughs until she’s breathless while Richie continues to fake-cry, curled up on the floor. When he stops, she nudges his back with her foot and he starts again. Now for some reason, he’s Italian—“Oh, mama Mia, I’m-a back on the government dole-a.”—and Charlie falls into another fit of laughter.

Ben and Bev are laughing, still on the phone but facing Eddie now. “Sounds like you’re having a fun birthday,” Bev says. 

“I am,” Eddie agrees, smiling at his friends. 

After they eat cake, and after the kids are in bed, they watch Richie’s newest comedy special on Netflix, despite Richie’s best attempts to dissuade them. Myra and Eddie are silent for the first several minutes while the Richie-on-screen jokes about masturbating to his girlfriend’s friend’s Facebook photos, miming along in obscene gestures. (“I’m like, okay, yeah, beach photos, nice…” His hand speeds up, fist pumping over his crotch. “Scroll down and it’s one of those ‘felt cute, delete later’ photos that they never fucking delete later. I keep scrolling and now it’s a ‘get out the vote’ PSA. Hillary Clinton’s face.” His hand slows and he grimaces. Then gradually, he starts again, escalating to a furious pace before he ‘finishes’ with an overacted moan. To the audience’s ensuing laughter, he says, “What? I’m a feminist. Clinton 2016.”)

“That didn’t age well,” Richie mutters.

After a beat, Eddie can no longer contain it. He throws his head back and laughs, and it fucking _hurts_ , his breath coming in sharp huffs, but he can’t stop. And then they all start laughing, even Myra. 

Through his laughter, Eddie rasps out, “I can see why no one wants to represent you.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Richie says jovially. 

“And no _way_ your dick is that big, dude.” Eddie says it before he thinks whether that’s a normal thing to comment on. But Richie just laughs.

“Okay, okay, cheap shot.”

They get through the rest of Richie’s special, having a lot of fun with it, and when they finally go to bed, Eddie isn’t tired. But he’s not ‘not tired’ in the restless, insomniac way that’s been plaguing him. Tonight he’s not tired because he’s still bursting with energy and he can’t stop smiling. So, sitting next to Myra in bed, he tries to read his book to settle down—nothing like historic shipwrecks to dampen the mood—and she has her laptop open, doing something. Probably online shopping or Facebook.

He keeps turning pages only to realize he can’t remember what he read on the page before, and flipping back and forth, and it’s hopeless so he closes the book and returns it to the nightstand. He’s barely settled back against the pillow when Myra slips her hand under the covers. It settles over Eddie’s crotch and she begins to rub over his satiny pajamas. 

Eddie inhales sharply. “Myra, I’m– really tired, and I can’t–” 

“We’re just doing you tonight,” she says. “You don’t have to do anything.” 

Eddie can’t help but note the relief in her voice. So he sighs and closes his eyes. He tries to focus on the soft warmth of her hand. He doesn’t want this to last particularly long and considering he hasn’t done this very often since his injury, it probably won’t. But it’s no use. His mind is clouded with doubts and worries. He’s forty-one today, which is not a milestone by any usual standard but he can’t avoid the fact that he’s in his forties now. He’s not forty, he’s _in his forties_. And he’ll be lucky to graduate to using a walker or a cane soon. His physical therapy seems to have reached a plateau, which is frustrating. And his career, he knows he needs to suck it up and put in the effort to work from home, but he can’t get started in the morning. He’s probably going to get fired; they’ve already been generous with the time off, but it’s not that Eddie is physically incapable of working—his job is a desk job, after all—it’s just that he doesn’t have the energy for it. He’s going to lose his job and therefore lose his insurance, and his family’s insurance, and how’s he supposed to find another job now? He can’t even leave the house– No, not ‘can’t,’ lots of people leave the house in the same condition Eddie’s in, and have normal jobs and lives, he’s just scared or lazy or enjoys wallowing in self-pity. 

And now, adding to the mess that is his forties, officially, Richie is staying with them, sleeping just down the hall– with interesting timing, his dick gives a heavy twitch. 

Myra notices, murmuring, “There he is.” 

Eddie’s eyes are open now. His skin feels hot and he wants to rip the sheets off himself, but he resists. Cautiously, testing a thesis, he lets Richie into his mind once again. Without much prompting, a couple images from the day bubble to the surface. Richie’s broad back through his t-shirt, and his hands, thick fingers delicately holding the tiny bottle-ships. Richie’s relaxed smile and his jaw, the way it moves when he swallows. His face when he laughs, and the way his body moved while he sprawled out and rolled around on the floor. Richie’s hand on his waist, guiding him to the couch, grip firm and steady. Even his stupid stand-up comedy, so obscene and low-brow, and Richie pretending to jack off on stage.

Eddie is definitely hard now. At the moment, he can’t worry too much about what this means. He just says, “Faster,” to Myra, and wishes her hand were a bit bigger and rougher and when he’s close, his hips jerk up and he finishes with a low groan, an arm slung over his eyes. 

“Wow,” Myra says after a moment. “That seems like progress to me. Happy birthday.” She leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth before she gets up to go to the bathroom. He hears the sink running. She comes back a minute later with a damp washcloth. Eddie takes it from her to clean himself up.

“Lights off?” Myra asks and Eddie nods. She keeps her laptop open for another half an hour while Eddie stares at the ceiling, wide awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so excited about this fic but excited in the way of like, a supervillain laughing maniacally. 
> 
> random note: I thought Paw Patrol was called Papa Troll for a good few months and was very confused the first time I saw an episode.
> 
> yell at me on tumblr: @[skeilig](https://skeilig.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

The guest room has all the sterility and personality of a hotel room. There’s a full size bed that takes up much of the space; a dresser and a mirror against the wall opposite the bed; a small window with thick purple curtains. The bedspread is a heavy, quilted thing and Richie hates sleeping with his feet trapped so he spends an hour the first night kicking and twisting until he frees himself from the layers of sheets. He sleeps in late, thanks to the curtains that block out the sun. In the morning, he tucks the sheets back in, under the end of the mattress, and half-unpacks his bag. Richie’s a pro at living out of a suitcase, but he has a feeling Eddie will give him a hard time for it, so he hangs up a few shirts in the closet and stuffs the rest of his things in an empty drawer in the dresser.

Then, just before 10am, Richie sneaks out of the room and toward the bathroom, clutching a change of clothes, a towel, shampoo and his toothbrush to his chest. He makes it to the bathroom unseen. This is the kids’ bathroom, complete with a tropical-fish-patterned shower curtain, and several bottles of 2-in-1 shampoo-conditioner. Richie showers and brushes his teeth and shaves. While he assesses his own face in the mirror, he takes a moment to think over his plan. Eddie never mentioned how long Richie was invited to stay with him. And Richie never told him that he rented out his house in L.A. for a few months and has no plans to go home any time soon. But he can stay here, or he can stay somewhere else. He’ll take whatever he can get. This morning he’ll talk to Eddie, maybe say something like, _I’m thinking about where I should go next_ , and see how he reacts. Or maybe that’s too leading. Maybe he should say, _I think I’ll stay around here for a while. Hotel recommendations?_ Yeah. That’s casual. And if he sees any flicker across Eddie’s face he’ll call his own bluff: _Or if you don’t mind me staying here…_

Richie leaves the bathroom feeling pretty good about his plan. He immediately bumps into Myra. 

“Oh, sorry!” they say in unison, wide eyes meeting. Richie, wet-haired, clutches his bundled pajamas to his chest.

Then Myra’s face settles into a pleasant smile. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thanks. I just, uh– took a shower. Hope that’s alright.” Richie winces. ( _What the fuck is he saying? He’s so stupid_.) 

“Yeah, of course.” She pauses, glances down the hallway toward the closed door to the master bedroom. She continues in a quieter voice. “You know, Richie, I wanted to say… I think it’s good that you’re here. For him, I mean. So, I hope you can stay a while.” She doesn’t quite meet his eyes, instead looking at his shoulder, which is her eye-level. That’s for the best, since she won’t notice the dumb way that Richie gapes at her, mouth open. “He didn’t always come out for meals before, and he’s been so…” Myra trails off and shakes her head. Now she does glance up to meet his eye; she looks exhausted. “The ships in bottles,” she says. “It’s all he’s been doing for weeks.”

“Yeah, say no more.” Richie nods, shuffling his possessions in his hands. “I’ll bully him for it and maybe he’ll stop.” 

Myra laughs. “Thank you.” It’s sincere; she squeezes his arm and leaves him to continue toward the bedroom. She opens the door, slips inside, and closes it again. 

Richie feels… weird. When you’re living with the guy you’ve been in love with your entire life and his wife and kids, is it better or worse if his wife likes you? A conundrum for sure. But what would be the point of Myra hating him? Just to alleviate his own guilt? It’s stupid that Richie feels guilty at all; he doesn’t have _intentions_. He’s here because it’s what Eddie wants and right now the entire world is bending around Eddie’s will. Myra wants whatever will make him happy—or one-percent easier to deal with—and if that’s Richie… He shouldn’t have to feel bad about it. This whole thing is probably harder on Richie than it is on anyone else. (When you spin it like that, Richie is basically a saint. Exposing himself to heartache because he’s _such a great friend_. So _selfless_. Yeah, right. If only he could believe that.)

Richie stops haunting the hallway, returns his pajamas to the guest room, and goes to the kitchen. He’s just started opening random cabinets to try to find coffee when Eddie rolls into the kitchen, carrying his craft supplies on his lap (Richie can’t _wait_ to make fun of him for it). Myra trails him, shooting Richie another disarming smile.

“Raiding my kitchen?” Eddie greets him. 

“Yeah, coffee?” he says.

“That’s very three-year-old of you.” Eddie wheels up to the kitchen table and plops his bottle-ship paraphernalia down on a placemat. “What do we say? Do we say please?” 

Richie flips him the bird over his shoulder. Eddie laughs and says, “Cupboard to the right of the microwave.” 

“Aha!” Richie seizes the K-cups and stands guard while the Keurig does its thing. “You want one?”

“Please.” Eddie doesn’t look up, already engrossed in gluing tiny things together, reading glasses low on his nose. The dork. 

Myra collects her purse and car keys and pokes her head into the kitchen to announce that she’s running some errands for the rest of the day and won’t be back until she brings the kids home. “Have a good day.”

Eddie echoes it absently. 

Richie brings two mugs of coffee over and sits across from Eddie at the kitchen table. He leans forward on his elbows to peer at his progress. Currently, Eddie is attaching the tiny sails, layering them and gluing them to the masts so that they’ll appear to billow on a captured breeze. 

Richie asks, “How many of these do you need?” 

Eddie raises his eyebrows but doesn’t look up. “It’s not a ‘need’ thing.” He keeps working as Richie sips his coffee. “What do you want to name this one?”

“I get the honors?” 

“Sure.” 

Richie thinks about it for only a moment. “The Escape From L.A.” 

Eddie smiles wryly. “I like it.” He keeps quietly working and Richie keeps sipping his coffee until—Eddie pauses. He frowns. “Oh. Wait. Oh…” Then his face falls. He looks completely crushed, and he drops his head to the kitchen table, groaning. 

“Um,” says Richie. 

“Goddamn it. _Fuck_ me. I forgot to tie on the fucking lines before I started the sails. God fucking damn it.” Eddie rakes his hands over his face. The fact that he’s not particularly angry—just sad and frustrated—is almost more concerning. 

Richie watches him, wide-eyed. He brings a hand to his arm, hovering above before he cautiously pats. “Hey, dude. Are you sure you’re not just torturing yourself with this? I mean, no offense, this seems like the worst hobby in the world. Where did you even come up with this? Ships in a bottle? In real life? I didn’t even know that was a thing real people did.” 

“There are forums,” Eddie mumbles, cheeks bright. “Stan sent me a kit. He said I needed a creative hobby.” 

“Oh, Stanley. I should have known. This has his fingerprints all over it. What are you doing taking advice from that guy? Isn’t he a birdwatcher?” 

Eddie doesn’t flinch, the line of his brow as serious as ever. “Have you talked to him, Richie?” 

“Stan?” His fingers tense on his coffee mug. “Yeah. A little.” 

“You should talk to him. He asks about you.” 

“Well, he can call me if he wants to–” 

“Richie,” Eddie says, unsettlingly stern. “Call him, okay?” 

After a moment of staring back at him, Richie breaks eye contact and scoffs. “This is giving me deja vu. I swear, ten years ago, I had this exact same conversation with my mom about my dad.”

Eddie smiles but it’s sad. He reaches for the ship again and begins removing the sails that he had just attached. 

Later that morning, Eddie’s physical therapist arrives. He’s young and cheerful, and Richie admires his unwavering smile as he greets Eddie by the door. He can only imagine how hard Eddie must have tried to break his spirit over the past few months. He meets Richie’s eyes, loitering in the hallway behind Eddie, and steps forward to offer his hand. “Hi, I’m Ryan.”

Eddie pivots around in his chair. “Oh, this is my friend Richie.” He leads the way down the hallway to his bedroom, where the P.T. equipment lives. 

“The famous Richie,” Ryan says, following. “I wasn’t sure if you were real or just an excuse for Eddie to not listen to me.” 

Richie laughs; he can’t see Eddie’s face, but he can picture it perfectly. That too-proud-to-crack-a-smile look. When they were growing up, that look motivated at least half of Richie’s obnoxious behavior. “I am real, but I’m also an excuse for Eddie not to listen to you.” 

Eddie huffs a laugh. Richie trails them into the bedroom, but it quickly becomes evident that being here in person is far removed from the phone calls. Richie doesn’t feel as free to joke and ramble—what would he talk about anyway?—and this is a step beyond the easy, comfortable, voice-in-your-ear kind of intimacy they shared before. Richie doesn’t know where to look. Eddie doesn’t look at him, either, as he quietly answers Ryan’s questions about his pain and progress during the past week. Laid on his back on a pad on the floor, Eddie stares at the ceiling, while Ryan, kneeling, helps stretch out his legs, bending each toward his chest. If Eddie looked a little less vulnerable, Richie might have cracked a joke about the compromising position. (Something stupid like, “Buy him dinner first,” or, “Does his wife know about this ‘physical therapy’?”) But as it is, Richie feels like he’s intruding on something he’s not supposed to see. 

So he backs toward the door. “I’m gonna… uh. Yeah. Leave you to it. See ya later.”

Ryan says, brightly, “Nice to meet you,” and Eddie echoes, “See ya.” 

Richie pulls on his new leather coat and goes outside. He misses his old coat; it was at the perfect stage of broken-in that can’t be shortcut, but can only be achieved by putting in the years. The leather cracked and worn soft around the particular angles of his elbows and the breadth of his shoulders. A little hole in the lining of the right pocket that he would fiddle with. Now that coat is buried somewhere under Derry, still soaked with Eddie’s blood. 

The glass sliding door that leaves the kitchen leads Richie to a small deck in the backyard, elevated three steps above the lawn. Richie pulls out one of the heavy wrought-iron deck chairs and sits down. It’s a chilly mid-November day, the sky gray above him. He digs into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes and lighter.

Richie hasn’t ever been a smoker, not really. Over the years, he’s kept it infrequent enough to avoid forming a habit. Until recently, he’d never even bought cigarettes for himself, just always jumped at the opportunity to bum one from someone else. That changed on his cross-country solo road trip. He was barely out of L.A., somewhere near Palm Springs, when he stopped for gas and bought a pack of cigarettes. He smoked out the open window while he drove. It was nice, made him feel like he was the moody star of an indie film. Or could’ve been, if he was twenty years younger. He blames Bev for putting the idea in his head. 

Now, Richie stares out over the suburban backyard—the neighbors’ fences butting up against the Kaspbrak property, and the neat line of pine trees—and smokes. 

When he’s done, he doesn’t start another one; he still needs to impose some limits on himself. Instead, he takes out his phone and scrolls to the contact for Stan the Man. 

Richie sighs deeply and figures that, probably, Stan is at work right now so he’ll call, hang up before it clicks over to voicemail, and send a follow-up text saying, _Call me when you get a chance_. And then the ball will be in Stan’s court. Problem solved. 

He dials the number, confident in his plan. He shoves his other hand in his pocket, starts working at wearing a hole in the satiny lining, and bounces his knee. 

After only two rings, he gets an answer: “Hello?”

Richie sits up straighter in his chair, tense. “Oh, hi. This is Richie… Tozier. Obviously.”

“Yeah, I… saw.”

“Sorry, I thought you might not answer– are you at work?” 

“You called me when you thought I wouldn’t answer?”

“No, I– I don’t know,” Richie says, clipped and defensive. “I just wasn’t sure. Whatever.” 

“I’m at work but I can talk for a minute, if you want to talk.” 

“Yeah, that’s fine. If you’re sure.” Richie drops his head back to stare at the overcast sky. He should have prepared better for this possibility. Maybe he can make up some Eddie-related emergency and call Stan back later. But, no. He should probably get this over with so he can stop worrying about it.

He’s been quiet for too long, and Stan says, “Well. What do you want to talk about?” He sounds amused, and that makes Richie’s chest prickle with anger.

“I mean, how are you?” Richie asks. “What’s new?” 

“What’s new?” Stan repeats, still sounding amused and so smug, that tone he used to take on when they were kids and he would tease Richie for something, make him feel stupid, but never just come out and say it. “Well. Not much. I had some time off work, as you know, now I’m back to it. So that’s… good.”

“Yeah, yeah, good,” Richie says. Then he says nothing else, for once unable to find any words.

Finally, Stan asks, “What’s new with you? Eddie told me you’re staying with him and his family?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“How’s that?”

“Good,” Richie says. “I mean. You’re gonna report back to Eddie, right? What am I supposed to say? I know you two are little penpals now.” It comes out too bitter and maybe that finally propels Richie from his verbal blockage. He says, “Sorry, I gotta ask– Why did you _do_ that, man? Were you just that scared? We were scared, too. It seems like– I mean, from where I’m sitting, it seems like you have a pretty great life. I just don’t get it.” 

After another second, his words sinking in, Richie says, “Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t have–” but Stan starts talking at the same time: “I never really forgot. I mean, it faded. But as soon as Mike called, I remembered everything. He told me it took the rest of you longer, until you went back home.” 

“So…” Richie realizes he’s shaking, but it might be from the cold. “Just don’t come back to Derry, why did you try to…?” 

“I don’t know, I guess… I guess I thought that…” Stan sighs, strained. It’s hard for him to talk about, too. Somehow that’s reassuring to Richie. “Look, I know it doesn’t make sense but I thought that the only way we could defeat It was if it was all of us alive, together. If I didn’t show up…” 

“Well, obviously you were wrong,” Richie says. “Because you didn’t die and we still beat It. What the _fuck_ , man? What kind of fucked up logic–? I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” 

“I don’t think it was… rational. I think I was just trying to rationalize it.” 

“You were always good at that, I guess.” Richie crosses one arm against his torso, shivering, holding his phone up to his ear with the other. “I’m sorry, Stan. I’m sorry I didn’t call until now.” 

“It’s okay.” 

Richie shakes his head, eyes closed. “It’s not. I was… scared to talk to you. Which makes me a shitty friend, I know.” 

“Why were you scared?” The question is gentle and genuine. 

So is Richie’s answer: “I don’t know.” 

They wrap up the phone call in a few more minutes, and it’s pleasant from there on out. By the end they’re both chuckling mildly and reminiscing. At some point, Richie stops shivering, either adjusted to the chilly temperature or occupied enough to forget it. Then Stan has to go back to work so he hangs up. 

When Eddie finishes P.T., it’s just past noon. Richie, sitting at the kitchen table and wasting time on his phone, hears him take Ryan to the front door and say, “See you next week. Thanks.” 

_Thanks_. Richie smiles. Eddie’s gruff front is slipping. 

Then he hears Eddie approach the kitchen, but the sound preceding him is not the roll of the wheelchair. When Eddie comes around the corner he’s walking, pushing an aluminum walker in front of him. 

“Whoa, look at you,” Richie says, getting to his feet. “This is very nursing home chic. You’re a foxy grandpa, Eds.” 

Eddie makes that face that means he’s trying not to smile, lips pursed, dimples deepening. “Ryan said I can start using this more.”

“Can I get some tennis balls to put on the feet?” Richie says. “I don’t know why that was the hip thing with all the old folks, but it’s ingrained in my memory. Did your grandparents ever do that?” 

“Do you wanna go get lunch?” Eddie asks.

Richie drops his teasing. “Sure.” He grabs his coat and car keys and meets Eddie by the door. 

Eddie tries to bend to grab his shoes from the rack in the closet, but he clearly can’t; one hand grasps at air while the other grips onto his walker, his face screwed up in effort. 

“Hey.” Richie swoops in, a steadying arm around Eddie’s waist, to grab the pair of loafers. He plops them in front of Eddie’s feet. 

Instead of thanking him, Eddie says, “You smell like cigarettes.” 

Richie blinks and steps away from him. “Yeah, Bev turned me onto it. I don’t really smoke, but it’s weird. You have one and then you want another. Funny how drugs will do that to you.” 

Eddie steps into his shoes. “You should probably stop while it’s still easy to.” 

“I know.”

Out on the driveway, Richie hangs around by the passenger side while Eddie wrestles (and curses out) the walker until it collapses, and chucks it in the backseat of Richie’s sedan. Richie keeps offering his help, but Eddie turns him down, a little more fiercely each time, until they’re both laughing. 

Behind the wheel and en route to some cafe that Eddie likes, Richie says, “So. I talked to Myra this morning.” 

Eddie shoots him a glance. “When?”

“I ran into her in the hallway,” he explains. “She told me that she doesn’t mind if I stay a while.” 

“She told you that?” Eddie doesn’t sound convinced.

“Yeah, man. Why is that so hard to believe? In fact, I think the way she put it was: I _hope_ you stay a while, Richie, because you’re such a perfect and polite guest.”

Eddie’s face twists around a reluctant smile. “Uh huh.”

“And… because she seems to think that you…” Richie adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. His hands are sweaty on the vinyl. But he needs to say this. “She said that you seem… happier? Like, I know you’ve been kind of cooped up. And this has been… well. It hasn’t been easy on you.”

It’s a stupid thing to be nervous about: _Eddie, my friend who invited me here and is my friend– are you happy that I’m here?_ Of course he is. Richie is needy for needing to hear confirmation out loud. But he does need to hear it, out loud, from Eddie. It’s always easier for Richie to know where he stands when Eddie is scowling or swearing at him; he knows how to read that. Sincerity isn’t a language they’ve often spoken together. 

“Oh.” Eddie is quiet for a beat. “Well, yeah… I hope you stay a while, too.” 

Richie smiles slightly but keeps his eyes fixed on the road. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Eddie agrees.

—

Eddie grows out a beard. It’s patchy, growing in around the scar in the hollow of his cheek. Eddie usually shaves meticulously, part of his daily morning routine. But the hospital stay and the home stay broke that habit, and he got used to a bit of lazy scruff. As it grew in, he found he likes the way it looks and feels. How it frames his mouth, underscores his cheekbones. Myra does _not_ like it. Earlier in the week when they went into Manhattan for an appointment with a specialist, she suggested that he shave. _Eddie, don’t you want to look fresh and nice for this?_ Eddie thinks he looks fine, thank you. Lots of men maintain facial hair—Richie has a constant shadow across his own face—and Eddie’s motivation isn’t laziness anymore. When the coarse hairs under his jaw and onto his neck grow too long, he trims them. He keeps it clean and neat. 

(Speaking of Richie, he’s been joking about No-Shave November and that maybe he’ll grow out a beard of his own. He said this around the breakfast table, and the thought of Richie with more facial hair than he usually sports made Eddie tighten his grip on his spoon until it pressed white into his fingers.)

So, Myra doesn’t like Eddie’s beard. She hasn’t said it in as many words, but she does leave his razor and shaving cream out on the bathroom counter every morning. Every morning, Eddie puts it away again, and when he emerges with his face still unshaven, she frowns but doesn’t comment on it. 

Eddie’s appointment went well. Doctor Major (which Richie said before they left sounds either like a cartoon villain or a porn star) was impressed with Eddie’s progress. He recommended an inhaler to help with his shortness of breath, but Eddie refused. Myra was at a complete loss as to why he would refuse a doctor’s recommendation (she said, “Eddie, I am at a complete loss as to why you would refuse a doctor’s recommendation”), and that led to a short spat while Eddie was still lying prone on the exam table. 

(“Myra, I told you I never had asthma, and it was–” “This isn’t about asthma, Eddie, this is a temporary treatment for a real problem, and you’re going to be walking more now which is–” “I’ll just take it easy!”) 

Eddie did tell her about his mother. Myra knew Sonia Kaspbrak for a couple years before she died, but at that point she was sick and Eddie preferred to visit her alone. Myra preferred it, too. In the hospital in Derry, he told Myra about the fake prescriptions and sometimes, he suspects, real ones that he didn’t need. Some of these memories weren’t lost to the Derry mind-fuck, just pushed down and rewritten in the way of usual memories. After college he finally moved into his own place, but he would visit his mother every weekend. On Sundays, when he had to leave, she would cry for him to stay and insist that he eat dinner, _Eddie, at least stay for dinner_. And he would, but those meals would make him so tired. Limbs heavy, dragging down in an oil slick. _Eddie, stay the night. You’re too tired to drive. You can drive home in the morning_. Eventually he put his foot down and refused what she cooked for him and it never happened again. 

Shaking, he told Myra this (he’d never told anyone) and she held his hand and stroked his hair, and Eddie wondered if she saw this as one more thing to protect him from. That’s not why he told her. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her.

In the end, Doctor Major said that, if Eddie feels strongly about it, an inhaler isn’t necessary; if he listens to his body and is careful not to over-exert himself, he’ll be fine. So that was that. 

By all accounts, Eddie is on his way to a miraculous recovery. Of course he still has a nasty scar on his chest, like his skin has melted. It calls to mind that scene in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , the pale melting face that traumatized Eddie when he was, what, five? Must’ve been. Before he had a chance to be traumatized over other horrors. And his ribcage looks uneven, the left side protruding, and the right caved in around a hollow spot. As his doctor told him, he can consider cosmetic surgery in the future, once everything has had a chance to heal. (“Just what I need,” Eddie grumbled, “To get ripped open again.”)

But he does consider it.

In another week, it’s Thanksgiving. For years, they have celebrated with Myra’s sister Liz and her husband Joe. Usually they go to Liz and Joe’s Connecticut home but this year, because of circumstances, the Kaspbraks are hosting. Myra spends the week buying groceries and cleaning the house and stressing about the holiday. Richie will have to get booted from the guest room to the couch for a night, and he insists he has no problem with it. Eddie suggests that the kids could share a room and Richie could take one of theirs, but Richie turns the offer down. “I’m an experienced couch surfer,” he says. “It’s where I feel most comfortable. I would sleep in the dog house if you had one.” 

On Wednesday afternoon, Frank brings home various turkey crafts, feathers and googly eyes glued onto paper plates. Sitting around the kitchen table, Charlie shows her brother how to trace his hand onto paper to draw a turkey. Richie joins in this activity, creating a huge monster turkey from the outline of his own hand. Charlie, giggling, makes up a story about ‘The Revenge of the Turkeys,’ and Richie provides some demonic gobbling sound effects. 

On Thursday morning, there’s some frantic last minute cleaning and food prep. Charlie gets whiny with Myra about her assigned chores until Eddie breaks out his Dad Voice to tell her to go clean her room. Always quick to cave to the Dad Voice, she goes—but she slams the door. 

“Charlie, come on,” Eddie calls after her. He looks at Richie, who’s smiling, and smiles back at him. 

When Liz and Joe arrive, Eddie lingers behind Myra in the front hallway, hanging onto his walker, while Myra greets them first, then the kids. Charlie is still grumpy so she only gives them quick hugs and one-word answers to their questions about school. Frank is a bit cheerier; Liz kneels in front of him for a minute while he emphatically tells her something about school yesterday. Liz is taller than Myra—and Eddie—by an inch or two and not-naturally blond. Joe is a few inches taller than Liz and dark-haired with a severe hairline. Living two hours away and being not dead, Liz and Joe are the family that they see most often. For holidays or the kids’ birthdays or sometimes just because. Eddie likes them just fine, but they still feel like Myra’s family and not his family. At this point he doesn’t expect that will ever change. 

Eddie gives each of his in-laws a half-armed hug and brushes off their inquires about how he’s doing. “Doing better.” 

There’s a beat of silence and Richie, standing behind Eddie, springs forward with his hand extended. “I’m Richie. Friend of Eddie’s. Hi.” 

Eddie nods in a hurry, embarrassed that he didn’t get around to introducing him first. “Yeah, this is… Yeah. This is Richie.” 

A week ago, over the phone, Myra told Liz about Richie, so this isn’t blindsiding them and no one says anything about it, but Eddie is still painfully aware of how weird this is. Yeah, Richie is his friend. His adult friend. Who’s living in his house with his wife and children. But Eddie isn’t currently leaving the house much, so he needs the live-in company, just to keep his sanity. Actually, considering everything else, Richie living here is the least weird thing. And besides, Eddie has been getting better about stopping his sexual thoughts about Richie before they can blossom. He slipped up real bad the first time, and twice more after that, once in the shower and once in bed after Myra left to take the kids to school. But that’s all in the past now. He’s been good for nearly a week. He hasn’t thought about Richie’s arms in at least two days.

It’s not _weird_. 

But it gets a little weird when Joe says, “Wait, Richie– Are you a comedian? I think I might have watched…”

Richie winces and scratches his neck, putting on a show of embarrassment. “Yeah, uh, Richie Tozier, I have a thing on– on Netflix?” 

“Yeah!” Joe’s face lights up and he jostles Richie’s shoulder. They’re just about the same height, eye to eye, smiling at each other. “I watched that!” 

“Well, he’s not a comedian _anymore_ ,” Eddie says, chest prickling. “Now he’s just unemployed.” 

After a beat of silence, both Joe and Richie burst into laughter. Joe keeps manhandling Richie, treating him like he’s just caught a touchdown pass at Homecoming, and says, “Heyo! Trash the Trashmouth!” 

Watching Joe and Richie laugh, Eddie seethes with anger. For some reason. Like he thinks he owns Richie, or something? Or like he wants to say, _Hey, Joe, if you were a fan of this guy, why the fuck did you never mention him to me?_ As if he ever would have checked out a comedian on Joe’s recommendation. If he did, he wouldn’t have enjoyed Richie’s comedy, anyway. Eddie wonders if he would have even recognized him. Maybe he would have felt the way he felt when Mike called him. Like when you stand up too quickly and your blood rushes, leaving you light-headed. Like when you know you’re forgetting something but you can’t remember _what_. 

They make their way into the kitchen, and Richie explains his situation the best he can: he was there when Eddie was injured, in some vaguely described incident with shifting details, and he stayed in Maine until Eddie was able to return home, and then, it having been a month, Richie’s agent dropped him, and Richie has been fed up with his career lately anyway, so he’s taking a sabbatical, and staying with Eddie for a while—and maybe with some other friends next, he adds, charitably. 

(Though Eddie wonders if that’s true. Is Eddie just first in a line-up? Are Ben and Bev planning to put him up for a month next? Patty and Stan?) 

“It’s actually… kind of nice,” Myra admits with a conspiratorial laugh. “He does laundry, which is more than I can say for this one.” She loops her arm around Eddie’s and he smiles, chagrined. 

“Yeah, well,” Eddie says, eyes fixed on the dull edge of the granite countertop. “Let’s cancel the housekeeping service, then. Richie can do it.” 

A collective laugh resounds through the kitchen and Eddie smiles tightly. 

“Do you have any openings for next month, Richie?” Liz asks, throwing a smile at her husband. “We have a guest room.” 

Richie chuckles, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the countertop between them, perfectly at ease. Or at least, appearing to be. “I appreciate the offer, but I think my current clients need all the help they can get. Did you know– they added me to the approved pick-up list at Charlie and Frank’s school. It’s crazy. I hope this gets leaked to TMZ. Bachelor comedian Richie Tozier found co-parenting with boring couple on Long Island. Sources speculate Tozier may be the real father.”

As soon as he says it, Richie winces. At least he’s learned some self-awareness in the past few decades, even if it usually comes _after_ the joke. Eddie’s about to throw him a ‘beep beep,’ but then Myra starts laughing—in gasping breaths, harder than she usually does—and drops her forehead to Eddie’s shoulder to ride it out. 

Eddie looks at her, the top of her head, then at Richie. They both crack a smile and Eddie looks away again, cheeks burning.

“I don’t know how to take that, Myra,” Richie says. “Should I be offended you find the idea so hilarious?” 

“Okay, beep beep,” Eddie says finally, and Richie cackles. “Come on, dude.” 

The kitchen work gets started after that, which is mostly the Myra-and-Liz show of bustling around and clanging pots and pans and laughing and arguing just a little about the way that Mom used to make stuffing. (“No, she never used sausage.” “Yes, she did!”) 

So, the men are content to get out of the way, sitting at the kitchen table with some early afternoon beers while discussing work. Joe is a claims adjuster, so he and Eddie can have supremely detailed conversations. And Eddie gets some pleasure out of showing off in front of Richie. Or intentionally boring him or being a dick or whatever Eddie is trying to do. For his part, Richie stays mostly quiet, picking at the paper label of his beer. 

While they drone on, Frank is off playing in the living room, and Charlie keeps pacing laps around the kitchen, alternating between trying to get her mom’s or her dad’s attention. Eventually, while she’s standing next to Eddie and patting his shoulder and saying, “Dad Dad Dad,” in a way that’s hard to ignore, he turns to her. 

“Charlie, you need to wait your turn.”

“Can I go to the stream?”

“What, now?” 

The ‘stream’ is a sometimes-flooded drainage ditch beside a wooded bike trail, maybe half a mile from the Kaspbrak home. Over the summer, the site captured Charlie’s imagination. It is a good place to find frogs, and—now Eddie realizes—reminiscent of the Barrens. Smaller and far less isolated, but there’s that perfect mix of wild and secure, something that says, _Build your home here_ , to young children. But it’s late November and there are no frogs to be found and anyway–

“You can’t go by yourself,” Eddie says. End of story. 

“But last time I found an animal burrow and– and I wanted to check–”

“No, okay?” Eddie says. “You’re spending time with family now.” 

Charlie, of course, acts like this is a death sentence. She groans and stalks off to living room. 

When she’s gone, Joe says quietly, with a smile, “She’s practicing for being a teenager.”

“I guess she doesn’t want to sit around and drink beer and talk about insurance,” Richie says, with a mild snap to his tone. “Crazy.”

Eddie snorts, not entirely amused. “If you want to take her, by all means, go.” 

“No, man, it’s cold,” Richie says, grinning. “I can’t believe you raised an outdoorsy kid. _You_.” 

Joe gets a good laugh out of this, which only makes Eddie bristle more when he’s just starting to relax. He doesn’t want to spend the whole day trying to be mean. It makes him feel isolated, like he’s in a bubble, breathing his own recycled air. But he knows that’s why he does it. When someone gets too close, when he’s in danger of slipping and showing himself, he gets mean. He can feel himself doing it to Richie, and he hates it. He’s been like this a lot lately, after his injury left him vulnerable and exposed, all soft underbelly, so he’s armored himself with meanness. He’s mean to nurses and to his physical therapist, and he’s mean to Myra, leaning on the pathetic excuse of his injury. The long, arduous recovery. 

And everyone makes excuses for him: It’s _hard_ for him. He lashes out because it’s _hard_. 

Bullshit. 

Really, he’s just small and mean, at his core. Eddie has often made the bargain that it’s better for people to not like him than it is for them to really see him. But he hates the thought of doing that to Richie, more than he hates it with anyone else. He wants to tether himself a bit closer to Richie, more than he wants to push away. 

And that’s exactly the problem. The meanness is a defense mechanism, and in this case, Eddie has something very real to defend himself against: himself. 

Because Richie’s not the only one who has gained some self-awareness in the past couple decades. Eddie has noticed his own behavior over the past weeks, how he’s always searching for ways to get in Richie’s space. Classic, embarrassing crush behavior. He hasn’t done this in forever. The last time he acted like this was also with Richie, when they were thirteen, and he couldn’t even recognize it for what it was. 

Just now, he’s sitting next to Richie at the table, leaning toward him. In a few minutes, when the turkey is in the oven and they relocate to the living room, he feels an itch of desperation watching how the seating arrangements unfold. And he feels a rush of relief when he ends up sitting beside Richie on the couch, close enough for warmth, either Richie’s or his own. It’s a revelation that he doesn’t want to have now—at forty-one, when he’s married with two kids and relearning how to walk—that being physically close to another person can be enough to make you happy. It’s kind of a sick joke, isn’t it? 

Every indulgence makes it worse, like an addiction. Eddie feels like he’s teetering on a precipice and he can’t decide whether he should really confront what’s going on. Maybe, he hopes, it’s just lust. Maybe all he needs is to jerk off in the shower thinking about Richie’s forearms a few more times and he’ll get it out of his system. Or maybe it’s some imprinting situation, because of the trauma and the injury, and Eddie _has_ been through a lot lately, and maybe when things mellow out he’ll no longer feel insane when Richie’s not beside him. 

Or maybe…

Well. That’s the possibility he can’t consider. 

So, he doesn’t. Instead, with Richie on the couch beside him and his heart pounding in his chest, Eddie watches his son put on an impromptu performance for the family. 

As Myra helps him explain, Frank has written a list of all the songs they do in kindergarten and he performs them all—at length—for the family. His voice is soft, and the tempo slow, and he definitely doesn’t shorten any verses. 

At one point, Charlie says, “I remember this song from when I was a kid.” 

Without missing a beat, Eddie says, “You are a kid.” 

“I know!” she says with a flash of irritation. “I know, I’m just saying when I was in kindergarten. I remember it. I _know_.” She folds her arms across her chest and sits back, pouting. 

Richie is probably the most attentive audience member, exhaustively recording the entire thing on his phone. “This is unreal,” he says to Eddie in a low voice. “He’s exactly like you. You were always like, time to pay attention to _me_ now!”

Eddie snorts. It’s true, to an extent. But he would never have done this, not for his family. Or his mother, who was the entirety of his family. His childhood was spent trying to shake her attention rather than hold it. 

Soon after, Richie patiently lets Frank teach him the hand motions to Mr. Golden Sun ( _Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on me._ ). The two sing it on repeat for a few long minutes until Eddie says, “Okay, _enough_ of Mr. Golden Sun,” in a tone that’s definitely too harsh. 

( _There you go, again. You’re mean. You’re such an asshole. To your son. He’s going to carry everything you say with him for the rest of his life._ ) 

Frank looks up at his dad with huge brown eyes. He’s a serious kid, and he’s starting to retreat inside himself more often now. Eddie recognizes that too well. 

“Sorry, Frank,” Eddie says, frowning. He chews his lip, embarrassed. “You can do more songs later, okay?”

When they gather back in the kitchen for dinner, Eddie waits until Richie sets his beer bottle down by a place setting and then snags the seat next to him. It’s pathetic, really. Charlie sits to Eddie’s left, and Myra sits across from them, next to Frank, to assist with and negotiate his eating. There are green beans again, but this time in casserole form, and maybe he doesn’t realize it, because he eats them. 

Dinner itself is fine. Everything is on the brown and bland side: dry turkey, rich stuffing (Liz won the argument and sausage was included), under-salted mashed potatoes. The jellied cranberry sauce is a small relief, bright on the tongue. 

The dinner conversation soon revolves around Richie, the newcomer and the most interesting guest. Eddie could get stabbed twice more and he still wouldn’t be able to command the attention of a room the way Richie can. It doesn’t even matter what Richie talks about; he’s good at telling stories. He describes a gas station he stopped at in Missouri while on his cross-country road trip, and he has everyone wrapped around his finger. 

Eddie feels, sometimes, quite proud to know Richie. _This is my friend_ , he thinks, smiling at him, as he tells some horrible food poisoning story. _I chose him and for some reason he chose me back_. When they were kids, Richie was never _cool_ , not necessarily. But he was able to float between social groups in a way Eddie never managed to. He was well-liked, at least. And back then, too, when Richie bounded up to Eddie in the hallway between classes or turned around to whisper to him in class, Eddie felt proud. He liked people seeing him and Richie together, people knowing that Eddie Kaspbrak is friends with Richie Tozier. 

“I was like, fine, I’ll buy a Snickers bar–” Richie mimes throwing one on the counter at the gas station, “While you ring me up, can I _please_ have the bathroom key? I’m about to explode in two directions and I know you’re the one who’ll have to clean it up.” 

Eddie laughs, helpless, head in his hands. “Richie, oh my _god_. Is this the best dinner table story you could think of?”

Joe twirls a piece of turkey on his fork and eyes it with suspicion. “Hopefully not an omen for later tonight.”

Richie turns the spotlight of his attention to Eddie, eyes crinkled and smile warm. “I’m just making sure everyone saves some room for dessert.” 

The kids finish their meals quickly and sit at the table for another mandated ten minutes before they’re turned loose. Charlotte disappears somewhere, maybe her room, and after Frank takes his plate to the counter, he pops up at Eddie’s side, reaching for his dad’s jeans pocket. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, laughing as he catches Frank’s narrow shoulder. “What are you doing?” 

“Can I have your phone?” 

Eddie takes his phone out of his pocket but pauses. “Yeah, can you ask?” 

“I wanna watch YouTube,” Frank says. “Please.” He holds out his hands, palms up, like a little Dickensian orphan asking for _more gruel please_. 

Richie, bright-eyed and maybe a little drunk, says, “Yeah, let’s find one of those fucked up kids’ YouTube videos that are made by an animation farm in, like, Malaysia–” 

He realizes his slip-up and stops his words too late, mouth hanging open. Eddie scolds him, “Richie.” 

Eddie unlocks his phone and gives it to his son (Frank knows his passcode anyway, but Eddie doesn’t want to encourage that kind of behavior), and Frank runs off to the living room, either unaware of or uninterested in Richie’s obscenities. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Richie says, cheeks flushed. “Like you never swear in front of your kids. You? I don’t buy that for a second.”

Myra nods and says something privately to Liz that Eddie can’t hear, but he doesn’t need to. 

Okay, sure, maybe Frank sometimes calls his toys ‘pieces of shit’ but Eddie can’t be solely to blame for that. It’s the media, right? Kids are exposed to so much these days. Who knows what kinds of things he watches on Eddie’s phone. 

An hour later when it’s pie time, Charlie re-emerges in the kitchen. Her mood seems brightened as she’s assigned whipped cream duty, topping each slice with a spray from the Reddi-Wip canister. 

Standing by the counter, in excited anticipation of dessert, Charlie starts absently swinging her arms in time with her hips in a dance that’s equal parts frantic and fluid. 

“Whoa, whoa, is this that dance thing?” Richie, standing beside her, starts mirroring her actions, but slow and awkward. “What is this? The kids won’t stop doing this.”

She stops, smiling self-consciously. “Flossing.” 

“Can you teach me? I need to stay hip.” 

Charlie does it again, but far too fast to be a useful demonstration, giggling. 

“Okay, slow it down.” Richie throws his hips around clumsily. “Do you… Do you do the arms and hips in the same direction, or opposite…? It looks so simple but… This is complicated. Slower. How are you doing this? I’m gonna throw out my back.” 

Eddie climbs out of his chair and takes a few unassisted, semi-confident steps toward the counter to grab his pie. Well, ‘to grab his pie.’ His real motivation is to have an excuse to put his hand on Richie’s shoulder or waist to ‘steady himself.’ Before he can do so, Richie bumps back against him with not insignificant force. 

Now Eddie really does need to steady himself. He grasps Richie’s waist, as Richie turns around to grab his forearm, eyes wide with concern. 

“Sorry!” 

Eddie is laughing. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

Richie, regrettably, lets go of his arm. “World’s first flossing-related injury. As in, the dance. My dad was a dentist so I know all about other flossing-related injuries.” 

Eddie smiles and selects a piece of pie to return to the table. His mind is stuck on the feeling of Richie’s ass bumping into his pelvis, and just like that he’s completely ruined his current streak. Mentally, he resets the counter: zero days since Eddie’s last sexual thought about Richie. 

God, he feels like shit. He cuts into his pumpkin pie with too much enthusiasm, fork scratching against the stoneware in a way that usually attracts Myra’s disapproving attention. 

This time, it doesn’t. 

Richie is still chattering away, absently dancing next to Charlie and starting to get the hang of it. “If you weren’t born in the 21st century, you can’t do this dance,” he says. “I’m ancient. There’s no hope for me.” 

—

It surprises Richie how smoothly time can pass when he’s not doing much of anything. The first couple days drag past before they start to fly. Richie has kept busy the last two decades for fear of what his idle hands might get up to, but maybe that was all baseless worry. Having a job, it turns out, is for chumps. It’s so much better to _not_ have a job. Richie catches up on TV series from the past five years, he reads—he fucking _reads_. Books!—he grocery shops and cooks, and he picks up Charlie from after-school basketball on Mondays and Wednesdays and takes her through whatever drive-through she requests. 

He tells the Losers, through their group text: _Turns out I was born to be a housewife. I fucking love this shit._

Within seconds, Bill replies with a string of laughing emojis. 

_What’s so fucking funny about that, Bill?_ Richie writes. _You wouldn’t be laughing if you saw me in my French maid outfit that Eddie makes me wear._

Eddie, sitting just on the other end of the couch from him, glances up from his own phone, looking exhausted. “Beep beep.” 

When Richie talks with his friends one-on-one, there’s less joking. He texts Bev quite a bit; she’s in the middle of a divorce and a bitter fight for ownership of her company, but she still has the bandwidth to be judgy about Richie’s life, apparently. 

But judgy in her Beverly way of raised eyebrows and averted eyes. She’ll text him: _Are you getting back to work soon?_ Or: _It’s nice of Myra to let you stay for so long._

Whatever. Richie has earned a break, and this is where he’s most useful at the moment. Not in fucking L.A., not alone, not kissing ass to get his career back. 

Eddie graduates from the walker to a cane and he gets the go-ahead from his doctor to start driving again. On the surface, this is great news, but if Richie has learned anything from witnessing Eddie and Myra’s marriage for a month it’s that nothing gets them fighting quite like good news. He’s brushed off their passive-aggressive comments and pretended not to have heard things. But one Saturday morning, there’s no point pretending not to hear.

Eddie said he wanted to go for a drive, for the first time since his injury, and Myra said, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Eddie was silent for a long, icy moment.

The kids scattered like cockroaches from light, but Richie, not as blessed with self-preservation instincts, stayed at the kitchen table, literally between them, gripping his coffee mug like a shield. 

“I’m going to get better!” Eddie keeps saying, shouting, like this is the point they’re arguing. “I’m _getting_ better. I’m walking. The doctor said–” 

“The doctor _said_ to take it slow.” Myra looks to Richie and his stomach drops. “Richie, tell him– you could drive him anywhere he needs to go until–” 

Richie’s mouth is open, frozen.

“Oh my _god_ , Myra,” Eddie says with a dangerous laugh. “He is not my personal chauffeur. It’s like you want me to never drive again.” 

“That’s not true–” 

“You’d _love_ it if I was dependent on you for the rest of my life. This is all you’ve ever wanted–” 

“Eddie, listen to me,” Myra says, her voice remarkably steady. “The doctor said to take it slow. You know you tend to rush things–” 

“You’re treating me like I’m a child, like I can’t make my own decisions about this–” 

“You’re not the only person who this affects.” When she says it, Myra’s voice finally betrays a note of emotion, real fear and frustration. 

Richie stares at the kitchen table with desperation. There are a couple pale, overlapping water rings on the wood. The entire thing is awful, Richie’s stomach in knots. He knows every inflection to Eddie’s voice, exactly where he’s scarred. His anger like an overactive immune response, attacking something benign because it looks like something that hurt him once before. 

And he recognizes Myra’s fear, reasonable and measured, and hurt that Eddie won’t hear her. 

In the end, while Myra sniffs back tears (“You almost _died_ ,” she says), Eddie softly negotiates a short drive, just on the neighborhood streets, and not alone. 

Not alone means with Richie. 

So Richie, a bit shell-shocked, throws back the rest of his now-lukewarm coffee, and gets up to follow Eddie to the garage. 

The Cadillac Escalade, a gleaming black tank of a car, sits imposing before them. 

“This–” Richie’s voice catches so he clears his throat and starts again. “This the car you crashed? When Mike called?” 

“Yep.”

It’s returned from the body shop long ago, good as new. Eddie hobbles over to the passenger side, cane tapping the cement floor. 

“And this the first time you’ve driven it since then?” 

“Yep,” Eddie says again, corners of his mouth tugging into a reluctant smile. 

“Okay, just checking.” Richie gets into the passenger seat.

Eddie takes a moment to adjust his seat and mirrors and click his seatbelt, all before turning the key in the ignition. He glances at Richie. “Nervous?” 

“I think I possess a reasonable level of apprehension.” 

Smiling, Eddie backs out of the driveway without incident, throwing one arm around the back of Richie’s seat as he does so. Richie finds that move inexplicably attractive, so he fidgets his hands in his lap until Eddie puts the car into drive and both hands on the steering wheel. 

When they turn the corner from the winding neighborhood roads onto an arterial street, speed limit capped at 40, Richie says, heavily, “So. Do you wanna talk about what happened back there?” 

Eddie clicks his tongue. “No, I really don’t.” 

Richie is quiet for a long few minutes. Eddie fiddles with the radio, turns up the volume, then frowns at NPR’s weekend programming. _Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me_ ’s theme blares. 

“I’ve been a guest once,” Richie says dryly. Eddie hums. Then Richie says, “I think there are three severely underemployed adults living in a house together–” 

“Richie,” Eddie says, a warning note, but Richie pushes on.

“–and things are tense. Between us, we have like… one part time job.” 

Eddie snorts. “That would make a good reality show.” 

“It would not.”

Without any additional prompting, Eddie sighs and says, “She has a tendency to be sort of overbearing, protective. And I get cagey when I’m treated like that, I lash out. I think it… Well. I think it’s because of my mom. I didn’t really… understand that, until we went back. But… I don’t know. Sometimes I worry that I can be like her, too. Especially with my kids.” 

Richie risks a glance at his face, in profile. Jaw set and brow furrowed. Eyes fixed on the road and hands on the steering wheel, wrists stiff. Richie says, “People worry about either becoming their parent or marrying them, and you did both.” 

“Fuck you, Richie,” Eddie says, a punched-out reflex. The corner of his mouth quirks. His facial hair twitches around his dimples, darkening the deep lines of his face. 

Richie grins. “Do you have a therapist?” 

“Why would I need a therapist when I have you?” 

“I feel like you’re not kidding and that’s what concerns me.”

They drive, listening to the radio. Eddie nails the news quiz, rattling off each correct answer a half-second before the call-in contestant does. When the celebrity guest calls in, Eddie reaches to turn down the volume a notch. The numbers tick down on the digital display. 11, 10, 9, 8. 

“I mean,” he says. “It doesn’t help that we have young kids and it doesn’t help that I got hurt, but… I can’t pretend the problems weren’t there before.” 

Richie’s ears rush. This sounds like a serious confession to him. And how can he speak to this? It’s a tough topic under the best of circumstances, and Richie is anything but impartial. There’s a dangerous flash of hope in chest, terrible. He clutches the armrest hard enough to hurt. 

Maybe Eddie realizes the weight of his confession because he backtracks. “Shit. I mean– I’m sorry, I’m just… thinking. We all made our lives without the benefit of really knowing who we are, you know?”

“Yeah.” 

Richie _does_ know. He’s close to telling Eddie the truth. The graves he dug up back in Derry, what his own token meant. His mouth is open, the words are there, almost. But he can’t get them into the right order, doesn’t know how to start. 

So instead, he says, “Eddie, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a good dad. I don’t think you’re like your mom. At all. Like, not even close. And I don’t think Myra is like your mom, either. Your kids are lucky to have you. You both.” 

Eddie glances over at him and holds his gaze long enough that Richie almost tells him to keep his eyes on the road. But after a couple seconds he faces forward again. “Thanks, Richie,” he says quietly. “That’s…” He trails off, and says again, “Thanks.” 

—

Once he starts driving, it’s only another week before Eddie goes back to work. He starts slow, three days a week, and short days, only ten to four. At first it’s an ordeal, his coworkers crowding around him or watching him from across the room. People hold doors for him a lot more now, on account of the cane. It only takes him until day two to snap; Melanie, a young woman in claims, gets the worst of it. She saw him coming down the hall from the elevator and held the door for him, like a well-mannered person. Eddie, thirty feet away and already tired of being a prop in people’s good deeds, shouted, “I have arms!” 

But after his first week, his coworkers adjust and he adjusts and it’s normal-ish. He gets back into the swing of things, and he likes getting out of the house and he really likes getting out of his head. And keeping his job is a nice perk. 

Maybe following his lead, Richie starts taking steps back into the real world. He takes a couple meetings in Manhattan, and from the sound of it, some agent is courting him. Richie claims to be in it for the free lunches, but he seems nervous when he goes for a meeting, and that means it’s real and he just doesn’t want to jinx it or brag. Richie wears collared shirts to these meetings, for god’s sake. So, with any luck, he’s close to working again, too. 

But Richie does not seem close to moving on. If anything, he’s settling into New York and into Eddie’s family. At the end of his first week back at work, Eddie returns home to find Myra’s car gone and Richie in the kitchen with his kids.

On the counter top, there are no fewer than four varieties of sliced cheese, a tub of butter, a loaf of bread, a bag of grated parmesan, and several condiment bottles, including mayonnaise, honey mustard, and ketchup. 

Richie glances up from the frying pan where he’s tending to a grilled cheese, and smiles. “Want one?” 

“Uh.” Eddie leaves his keys on the hook and steps into the kitchen. Charlie works at the counter next to Frank, spreading mustard on a slice of soft white bread. Eddie surveys the spread of ingredients. “What kind of grilled cheese are you making? Seems… involved.” 

Richie explains, “When I moved to L.A. in my twenties and I was broke, I perfected the art of the grilled cheese.”

“Ketchup?” Eddie grimaces. “Don’t tell me you’re–”

“I’m what? A culinary genius?” Richie aims a greasy spatula at him. “You _have_ to dip it in ketchup. You put mustard and mayo on the inside, you dip it in ketchup–”

“Oh my _god_.” 

“–which is a _vegetable_ , technically–”

“Ketchup is not a vegetable, Richie.”

“Tell that to Congress.” 

The grilled cheeses are, admittedly, fantastic. They eat in front of the TV, getting crumbs and greasy fingerprints on the couch. Richie chooses this moment to reveal his limited history of voice acting gigs in children’s movies.

“What?” Eddie says, very quietly. 

“Yeah, I told them and they wanna hear me, so we’re gonna watch _Despicable Me 2_ , if that’s alright.” 

Eddie stares. “Uh, yeah. Put it on.” 

“I’m barely in it,” Richie explains while he navigates through a couple streaming services to find the movie. “I’m one of the… the minions. I just have, like, one or two lines that didn’t get cut.” 

As the movie begins to play, Eddie, still watching Richie, asks, “What else have you been in?”

Richie turns his head toward him with a lazy grin. “You haven’t stalked my IMDb?” 

Eddie hasn’t. The farthest he’s gotten is the Google image searches and occasional trashy tabloid article from the late aughts. 

“No,” he says. 

“Well, uh, I was in the _Angry Birds_ movie. Unless, well. They might have cut my part, I don’t remember. And the fifth _Ice Age_.” Richie’s eyes light up and he pulls a knee onto the couch to turn his body toward Eddie’s. “Now, you may be wondering: how are there this many _Ice Age_ movies? What is this franchise even about? And let me tell you. _Ice Age 5_ , a film called by critics, ‘Lazy, scattershot, and excruciatingly unfunny–’” Richie starts cackling too hard to finish. 

Eddie quirks an eyebrow. “You have that memorized?” 

Richie wipes his eyes. “Of course I do. You know, my agent dropping me was the best thing that ever happened to me. Like, the guy that got me the part of a little rat thing in _Ice Age 5_? A whole two lines? And skimmed ten percent for that deal? Fuck you, Steve!” Richie extends two middle fingers to the sky. 

“Richie!” Eddie scolds, throwing a look to his distracted children. “Seriously, dude. Young ears.” 

Richie shrugs. “They’ve heard worse.” 

“Myra’s gonna kill me.” Eddie smiles though, sinking back against the cushions.

They leave before Richie’s part comes up in the movie—Richie can’t remember when it is, anyway—to grab beers and they don’t return to the living room. Instead they lean against the kitchen counter, opposite each other, chatting. About Eddie’s first week back at work, about Richie’s mysterious meetings. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were, like, dating someone,” Eddie says, then regrets it. 

Richie barks a laugh. “If you didn’t know any better? Jesus _Christ_. Ouch. As much of a catch as I am—forty-year-old, formerly-successful, now-unemployed comedian slash stay-at-home third-wheel—” Richie breaks into giggles for a moment before he pulls himself together, “What was I saying? Oh, right, as much of a catch as I am, I’m still inexplicably single.” 

A few laughter aftershocks shake Eddie’s shoulders as he takes a swig of beer. “Dude, I wasn’t taking a shot at you. I meant, I know you’ve been meeting with an agent.”

Richie’s face gets serious, nervous, again, jaw tight. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He nods and tugs up the sleeves of his shirt and Eddie’s eyes land on his bared forearms, wiry and hairy; Eddie’s mouth falls open involuntarily, like some kind of horny zombie. He snaps his mouth shut and averts his eyes. (And resets his counter: zero days since his last— actually, fuck that. Why is he bothering to keep track anymore? Hasn’t done him any good.) 

“Yeah,” Richie says. He licks his lips. “This guy, he’s New York-based, obviously, and he’s more focused on film and television than comedy. Which is… on purpose. I’m due for a career change.”

Eddie considers, tapping his fingernails against the brown glass of his beer. “Are you thinking writing, acting…?”

Richie shrugs. “Not sure. Maybe both? And…” He lets out a deep breath, unusually tense. “So, the other element of this, where I’m at career-wise… Well. You remember my Netflix special?” 

Eddie snorts. “Unfortunately.” 

“And you remember how I said I don’t write my own material.” 

“A small comfort,” Eddie confirms. 

“Well, so.” Richie doesn’t meet his eye, instead looking at Eddie’s shoulder. “My writers, they started writing material for me and they just sorta… assumed that I was interested in women. And I never told them that I’m not, so… It feels a little bigger than just a career change, or whatever. I have to change my whole public persona. Or at least, I want to. I think.” 

Eddie stares at him, the cogs turning, and Richie waits. Eddie shakes his head. “Wait, so… You’re…?” 

Richie nods. “I’m gay. Yep.” 

“Oh.” Eddie’s mind races. He re-evaluates some things real quick, contextualizing this new information alongside his own, undeniable and frankly unmanageable, attraction to Richie. The conclusion: It makes it worse. It makes it much worse. Then he says, for some reason, “You should leverage that. Like, spin it into your agent dumped you because you’re gay. Then you have a scandal brewing and everyone will want to work with you.” 

“Yes.” Richie points at him. “Genius. You wanna quit your job and do P.R. for me?” 

Eddie shrugs, his heart still pounding, but not showing any outward signs of panic. “If you can pay me a comparable rate, sure.”

“What do you make analyzing risk, anyway?” 

Eddie breathes a laugh and takes another drink. Then he realizes it was an honest question. “Richie, I’m not gonna… tell you how much I make…” 

“What, is this one of your New England Puritan hang-ups? You can’t talk money with me?” Richie has taken a step toward him, taller than him, Eddie has to tilt his face up to meet his eye. Richie is fucking _smirking_ at him, lips curled. “Come on, baby, let’s get dirty. Eighty?” 

Eddie frowns, deeply uncomfortable for all sorts of reasons, and thumbs toward the ceiling: _Higher_. 

Richie ventures, “A hundred?” 

Eddie makes the same motion again. 

Richie’s eyebrows shoot up. “One-twenty?” 

“Are we basing this on salary only or including dividends?” 

Richie explodes. “Fucking _dividends?_ ” 

“Yeah, man.” Eddie fidgets with his beer. “Come on, Rich, how much did you make for that Netflix special? You’ve gotta make more money than I do.” 

“Well, I don’t get _dividends_. Money for sitting on your ass.” Richie collapses back against the counter opposite, defeated, and finally out of Eddie’s space. 

“I would pay you to let me set up an investment portfolio for you.” 

“I’m sure you would, you kinky motherfucker.”

When Eddie laughs, after a beat of silence, it has an explosive, unhinged quality. 

—

It’s a warm spell, probably the last of the season, in mid December. The temperature is in the upper 40s, and Charlie gets an itch to ride her bike. But Eddie is still at work and Myra brought Frank along for some errands, so Richie keeps an eye on her.

When he’s pulled on his coat and stepped outside onto the driveway, Charlie is already doing laps in the cul-de-sac, sans helmet.

“Hey!” Richie cups his hands around his mouth to shout. “Helmet _on_ , dude! What are you doing?” 

Charlie yells back, “I’ll stay in the cul-de-sac.” 

Richie finds her helmet in the garage, purple and glittery, and jogs toward her. “No. Charlie. I’m serious.” He wonders if his attempted Dad Voice is any good. Usually when he raises his voice, it sounds pitched and nasally. “Get over here.” 

Charlie whizzes by him and she’s smiling, the little bastard. She calls over her shoulder, “Did my dad tell you to do this?” 

“What? No. This is just, like, common sense.” 

When she passes him again, where he’s standing in his slippers at the end of the driveway, she says, “He’s… overprotective.” 

She seems proud of the word, smiling again, but it lights something in Richie’s chest. He doesn’t have to try to sound strict when he calls out, “He is not overprotective. Don’t say that, alright?” 

Charlie finishes her current lap and screeches to a halt in front of Richie. She looks up at him with round, wet eyes. 

Richie panics. “Shit, I’m sorry.” He rushes toward her, holding her helmet out. “I didn’t mean to… yell at you. But you gotta wear your helmet, dude. Looking cool when you’re eight is not a thing. In twenty years, you’re not gonna remember whether or not you looked cool biking around the neighborhood, and you’re especially not gonna remember that if you bash your head in, okay?” 

Richie is talking a mile a minute, but Charlie isn’t crying so he continues. 

“I didn’t wear a bike helmet when I was a kid and look at me now. Do you wanna end up like me, Charlie?” Richie slouches, and claps a hand to his extended belly. 

A giggle slips past her grumpy front, and it’s _so_ Eddie. “Yes.”

“No, you don’t. You really don’t. Wear your helmet, kid.” 

She finally takes it, back to pouting. 

“Look, you want me to wear your dad’s helmet and bike with you? Solidarity?” 

“No.” She frowns. “That’s worse.” 

“Okay.” Richie barks a surprised laugh. “Ouch. But fair enough. Helmet on.” 

She relents and plops it on her own head. 

When she doesn’t do the chin-strap, Richie sighs and intervenes. “I think you’re being difficult on purpose, you know that? You have to actually strap the chin-strap, it doesn’t do shit if you don’t strap it, okay? It’ll just fly right off your head.” 

He gets it strapped on tight then raps his fist against the plastic shell. It clunks. 

Charlie says, “Ow,” and he says, “Would’ve hurt worse without the helmet, okay? Now go, have fun, be wild and free, but safe, okay? Your dad will kill me if anything happens to you. And then your mom will kill your dad. Total bloodbath.” 

She doesn’t hear it; she’s already gone, taking off down the street. 

Late that night, after the house is asleep and quiet, Richie slips out the back door to find Eddie sitting on the steps of the deck, wrapped in a heavy coat and nursing a beer. It’s still above freezing, but by no means warm. Richie slides the glass door shut behind him and shrugs his shoulders up to his ears, hands stuffed in his pockets. When he approaches Eddie, who scoots aside to make room for him, he plucks the beer from his hands. He takes a swig as he sits down. 

“Get your own,” Eddie grumbles.

“Nah.” Richie sighs and pulls his pack of cigarettes from his pocket, flips it open. 

“Don’t smoke,” Eddie says, shooting him a look. His hand is on Richie’s, over the pack. 

“O…kay,” Richie says, not sure why he’s not fighting back. “Fine.” He pockets it and takes the beer bottle from Eddie again, takes a long swig. “That’s your compliance tax.” 

They pass it back and forth for a few minutes, Eddie less resistant to sharing, shoulders bumping. Richie’s stomach twists up. He shouldn’t be here. He _can’t_ be here. He can’t be here, feeling the way he feels about Eddie and acting like it’s fine. Ingratiating himself to Eddie’s wife and children. It’s massively fucked up. 

Through his guilt, Richie blurts, “I almost made your daughter cry today.”

Eddie glances at him, eyebrows raised, amused. “It doesn’t take much.” 

Richie laughs, and he lets his guilt ebb away, and it’s so easy. Eddie makes it easy to not feel like shit, even though Richie should. 

Eddie prompts, “What happened?” It’s gentle, not a bit judgmental. 

“I was…” Richie looks up at the dark sky overhead, glowing with ambient city light, and searches for the right word, “…defending your parenting style.”

Eddie furrows his brow. “I don’t know what that means.”

“I dunno, she was trying to get away with not wearing her bike helmet, probably thought I would let her, and I was like, no, dude, you gotta wear that.” 

Eddie smiles and hunches forward a bit. “She likes you.” 

“Yeah, I’m basically a children’s birthday party entertainer, but, like, non-professionally. Just in my day-to-day life.” 

Eddie laughs. “Are you trying to say clown? Do you mean you’re a clown?” 

Richie laughs, too, knocking his shoulder against Eddie’s. “Oh, fuck off. Beep beep.”

Eddie bumps back, and stays pressed against him. “You can’t beep beep me.” 

“I can if you’re being a dick.” Richie, sitting up a bit straighter than Eddie, looks down at his face. The spread of eyelashes. The pale light off his cheekbones, above the dark spread of his beard. “Are you trying to huddle for warmth or something? What’s going on here?”

“Maybe.” Eddie nudges him again. His own arms are crossed against his chest, holding the beer in one hand. 

Cautiously, maybe as a joke, Richie rests one arm around his back. He gives Eddie a playful little jostle, not too serious. But then he leaves his hand flat against his back, undermining any joking front. 

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Eddie says, “Rich.” 

Richie hums.

“When did you realize you were gay?”

Richie freezes, too aware of how his body tenses against Eddie’s. He consciously loosens, lets his fingers slacken against his back. “Hm. Well.” Richie swallows, wets his lips. His voice feels too rough. “Puberty hit and it was obvious I didn’t feel the way I was supposed to feel. I tried to… repress it or explain it away, but that only works to a certain point.” 

“Did you…” Eddie stares at his own hands. “Was there anyone… growing up, that made you… realize…?” 

Richie laughs, despite himself, despite everything, surprised. “Are you asking me who I had a crush on?” He rubs his hand against Eddie’s back, saving the playful vibe. Things were getting dire there for a moment. “It’s okay, this has a real sleepover vibe, let’s have a pillow fight next. Paint each others’ nails.” 

Eddie feels tense against him, though. Richie drops his hand from his back. 

“Uh, well,” Richie says, scratching his face. “I definitely had a crush on Bill at some point.” 

Eddie snorts. “Didn’t we all?” 

Richie brushes over that comment, not reading it for what it is, not quite yet. “And there was— God. There was this one kid, he was actually Henry Bowers’ cousin, so, sincerely, my bad. Never claimed to have good taste… or self preservation instincts. And, uh.” It feels like Richie has put shells to his ears. He almost can’t hear his own voice when he says, “You.” 

Eddie glances up, unsure. His face is shadowed and that makes it easier for Richie to look back at him. Eddie says, “Me?” 

“Yeah, big time.” Richie’s heart twists; he can taste Eddie’s blood on his lips again. “Like, the most emotion my young, tiny body had ever contained, carved our initials into the Kissing Bridge, that kind of thing.” 

He laughs weakly, desperate to play it off as a joke, as if it didn’t tear him apart at the time. As if it hasn’t left scars. 

Eddie asks, very quietly, “You did that?” 

Richie shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Did you… ever see it? I kinda wondered, back then, if you ever noticed it. The initials.” 

Eddie shakes his head. 

“Hmm.” Richie reaches for the bottle of beer, and Eddie flinches, but not away from Richie as much as toward him. Richie pauses, laughs awkwardly. “Is there any… left?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Eddie hands it to him, avoids his eyes. 

Richie drains the rest of the beer, kept cold by the early winter night and sets the empty behind them, out of the way. He settles back in, heart still thudding from the confession, the nervous sweat on his skin drying and leaving him chilled.

“If we remembered…” Eddie starts unsurely. “If we knew each other longer… would you have done anything? Would you have told me?” 

Richie takes in a deep breath. When he says, “Eddie,” it’s a plead. 

“I don’t think you would have.” 

Richie turns to him, the eye contact amplifying their closeness. It seems like they’re always close lately. Eddie sitting right next to him or standing with his hand on his arm. If it’s a challenge, Richie has never responded. Now, he raises his own challenge by looking him right in the eye, at a distance just close enough to be squirm-worthy but far enough away to sit in it for a moment. 

Richie asks, “Would you have wanted me to?” 

Eddie looks at Richie’s face for a long few moments before he backs down from the eye contact—but only for his eyes to flicker lower on Richie’s face, to his mouth. Eddie’s lips part, his mouth slack and without the faintest hint of a smile, and, well. All the body language adds up. It’s the way one prepares to kiss or to be kissed. 

So, Richie kisses him. It’s stupid, but it’s quick, just a dry, chaste press of lips. Flirting with the line of plausible deniability, up to the edge of a cliff. The kind of kiss that could end with them pulling back and laughing— _That was weird, right?_ —and never speaking of it again. It could end like that. But when Richie pulls back, before he can put enough distance between them to read Eddie’s expression and see how it will end, Eddie chases after him. 

Eddie kisses him, breathing hard, his hand scrabbling on his chest and it feels like he’s trying to both pull Richie closer and push him away. Eddie gets a fistful of Richie’s coat and for a moment, Richie doesn’t dare move. Eddie’s beard tickles, catches in Richie’s own stubble. Then, when Eddie exhales against him, it melts. The fist becomes a flat hand pressed to Richie’s chest then it slides down and under his arm. Richie shivers and slants their mouths and he grips Eddie’s arm where he’s touching Richie, holds him in place.

When Richie slips his tongue against his lips, Eddie pulls back with a ragged breath. And he says, “Not here.” 

Eddie looks over his shoulder to the first floor bedroom window. It’s dark, curtains drawn, but they can see it from where they’re sitting; they can be seen. They can probably be heard. Richie nods his understanding and follows when Eddie stands up. He slides the heavy glass door open and shut. He walks slowly without assistance, but steady.

Eddie leads him to the small first floor bathroom, just off the kitchen. Richie steps inside after him, and it’s close and hot and bright, the lights on and doubling off the mirror. Eddie locks the door. Then, wordlessly, he turns to Richie and kisses him again, backing him up against the bathroom counter. 

Richie molds his hands around Eddie’s torso where he’s solid and warm, and feels everything he’s wanted to feel since Eddie nearly died. No hole in his chest. No protruding claw. No hot wet blood. Just skin and muscle and bone. Eddie licks and sucks at Richie’s mouth, nips with sharp teeth and soothes with his tongue. With a rearrangement of limbs, Richie’s thigh slots between Eddie’s legs; Eddie drags against him and hisses against his lips. 

Richie almost forgets his own desire (almost) now that he feels Eddie’s, undeniable and persistent. But soon Eddie’s hands hook under the swell of Richie’s ass and direct him to hop up on the bathroom counter, so he does, knees bent and toes still touching the ground. Eddie fills the space between Richie’s spread legs and, breathing wetly into his mouth, fumbles to take Richie out of his pants. 

Richie speaks the first words since the door shut behind them, and it’s, “Oh, fuck.” Breathed and wrecked and in anticipation. When Eddie touches him, licking his own palm first, Richie doesn’t form any coherent words, just a soft whine. His hips twitch. 

Richie, equally unprepared for everything that has happened in the past ten minutes, is no less surprised when Eddie begins to sink before him, with effort, to kneel on the bathroom floor. 

Eddie doesn’t look up at Richie's face when he takes the head of his cock into his mouth. Instead he keeps his gaze down, with some concentration, as he bobs up and down. And that’s probably for the best. If Richie were affronted with those big brown eyes at this moment, above Eddie’s stretched lips, he might vaporize or turn into a pillar of salt, or meet some other, equally Biblical end. 

It’s overwhelming enough as it is. Richie kicks his legs, involuntarily, and Eddie tightens his grip on his knees, holding them down and apart. Richie scrabbles across the bathroom counter for something to ground him. He’s making noises and talking, he knows he is, but he can’t tell what he’s saying. Probably, “Eddie.” Probably, “Please.” 

So it’s only a few seconds later that Eddie stands back up, wincing and huffing with effort—this can’t be easy on his back, Richie thinks with disconcerting clarity—and kisses Richie’s slack mouth, his hand still stroking him, but slow and loose, wet and warm and smooth from his mouth. 

“Shh…” he soothes. “Richie. You need to be quiet.” 

Richie’s vision floods at that, because he’s in Eddie’s house and Eddie’s wife is sleeping not thirty feet from here, and Eddie doesn’t want her to know. He doesn’t want Richie to be heard. Later, when he thinks back on this, he’ll feel terribly guilty—but right now, the thought turns him on so much he can barely breathe. He kisses Eddie, hard and leading with his tongue, and reaches for the buckle of his belt. 

Eddie takes his hands off Richie long enough to get his pants down over his ass and Richie pulls his own jeans down past his knees. Eddie steps back between his legs, pressing his erection into the flesh of Richie’s bare thigh. Richie cups his hand around Eddie’s cock to hold him in place, spreading precome with his thumb. Eddie, shuddering, wraps his hand around Richie’s cock and puts his mouth to his neck. Richie tries to keep track of the points of contact, but it’s dizzying, it’s just _Eddie Eddie Eddie_. He thinks: _He’s aggressive. He’s kind of dominant. Maybe he’s just really pent up_. He thinks: _He wants me. He_ wants _me_. 

Then he doesn’t think much of anything as they rock together. Richie’s bare ass moves against the smooth, cold marble surface, getting warmer and slick with sweat. He’s falling into the basin of the sink, the edge of the counter digging painfully into his thighs. He moves with Eddie and against him. Eddie’s every thrust forward as he jerks against Richie’s thigh pushes Richie backward. And then Richie rebounds, crashing into him. Eddie breathes in staccato, rasping huffs against his neck, hair scratching. 

Richie tries to stay quiet, but his voice escapes in soft little whines. When he comes, eyelids flashing white, he bites down on Eddie’s clothed shoulder. Eddie inhales sharply and stills; Richie tightens his hand around him, and Eddie spills over, breathing, “Fuck,” and “Richie.” 

They cling to each other for a while, cooling and drying, under the bright bathroom lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really had my heart set on Richie being in Trolls 2 but then, to my dismay, I discovered that that movie hasn’t even come out yet, let alone prior to summer, 2016.


	3. Chapter 3

After, they pull away from each other and tuck themselves back in, frowning at the wet spots on their shirts. They take turns washing and drying their hands, maneuvering around each other in the small, stuffy space. Eddie’s not sure why he locked the door—much good that would have done—but he unlocks it, and opens it just far enough to poke his head out. The coast is clear. The house is dark and quiet and still. Eddie leads the way, hobbling back through the kitchen, his gait unsteady for at least two reasons now. 

Richie grabs his cane, from where it’s leaning against the wall, and holds it out to him. “Here.” 

“Thanks.” Eddie takes it and there’s a moment of eye contact. ( _Oh god, oh fuck_.) They both look away. “So, I’m gonna–” 

Richie starts at the same time, “Should we–?” 

Eddie feels like the earth is going to open up and swallow him whole. Maybe he wishes it would. He looks at Richie, and the skin on his face and neck is rash-red from Eddie’s beard. 

(God, Eddie is such an asshole.) 

“I’m gonna go to bed,” Eddie says. And he does. He creeps down the hallway. He eases the door open then shut. He buries his rumpled clothes in the laundry hamper and changes into his pajamas. Myra stirs slightly when he settles into bed, but she doesn’t wake. 

He does not get much sleep. 

When Eddie wakes up, he’s alone in bed. For a moment he feels alright, just tired, while his brain processes the previous night first as a particularly vivid dream and then—as reality. He jolts to alertness, his chest clamping down with anxiety. He decides, for a moment, to never get out of bed. There’s no way he can go on with his life. 

But, of course, he can and he does. He takes a shower, scrubbing himself raw with exfoliating soap to distract himself from the unfortunate fact that he’s still horny. It’s more of a low-grade fever than the inferno that overwhelmed him last night, but it’s not helped by the memories. Richie’s smell, the slight sweat-funk, how Eddie wanted to lose himself in the crook of his neck. The hot weight of Richie’s dick in his hand and on his tongue, how responsive he was, squirming and moaning under Eddie’s attention. Eddie had never experienced sex like that, had never taken so much pleasure from giving it. 

Now, Eddie’s hand curls around his thickening cock, his shoulders tense and hips tightly wound and– 

No. Oh my god, no. What the fuck is wrong with him? 

He turns the water all the way to cold and stands under the icy spray as long as he can stand to. Finally, shivering, lungs constricted, he turns off the water and steps out of the shower to wrap himself in a towel. 

When he emerges for breakfast, it’s later than his usual hour. His kids are already at the kitchen table, dressed and eating cereal. Myra is packing a bag full of snacks, wet wipes, Kleenex, and other mom supplies. Charlie is wearing her bright pink basketball t-shirt with her dark hair pulled up into a messy ponytail. 

Oh, right. Eddie completely forgot about Charlie’s tournament today because he is, actually, the worst. 

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes,” Myra says to Eddie. 

“Shit,” he says, then apologizes when Myra shoots him a look. He’s half-dressed, in an old t-shirt and jeans, wet-haired. 

Eddie rushes to make himself a cup of coffee and eat half a bowl of cereal and find a shirt in his closet. When he returns, buttoning up the first flannel he found, he freezes in the threshold to the kitchen. 

Because now Richie is sitting at the kitchen table, also freshly showered, his wet hair heavy and curling around his ears. He’s saying to Charlie, “Yeah, I’m sorry, this work thing came up. You’re gonna do amazing, though.”

Eddie takes a few cautious steps into the kitchen. Richie glances up to meet his eye. He looks terrible, like he hadn’t slept. Eddie _feels_ terrible; he hadn’t slept.

“Hey,” Eddie greets him, his tone all wrong.

“Good morning,” Richie says. “I was just telling Charlie that I can’t come today.” 

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah.” Richie stares at the kitchen table, unblinking. 

Myra, too frazzled to notice the weird tension, cuts in, thrusting car keys into Eddie’s hands. “We need to get going.” 

“Okay.” Eddie takes a few steps back, toward the garage door. He grabs his coat off the hook. “We’ll see you later… Richie.” 

“Yeah, see you,” Richie calls after them. 

While Myra gets Frank strapped into his car seat—he hasn’t outgrown his front-facing one yet, and Charlie is still in a booster despite her grumbling—Eddie sits behind the wheel and thinks… maybe he should text Richie. Just send him a quick text. But he has no idea what he’d say. He can’t come up with anything by the time Myra is in the passenger seat next to him and urging him to drive. So, he backs out of the garage and gets going. They have about an hour on the road ahead. 

Frank and Charlie get some cartoons playing on the TV screens on the back of the headrests so they settle down enough that Eddie can just drive and think. 

Richie was obviously lying about the work conflict, but he can’t blame him. Eddie’s not sure how he’s going to get through today himself, and it would only be worse if Richie was with them. 

But maybe the worst part is: Eddie doesn’t regret it. It would be a whole lot easier to tell Richie: Sorry, that was a mistake, it won’t happen again. It’s going to be a lot harder to tell him… whatever he needs to tell him.

Against all odds, Eddie gets through the day. The basketball tournament is chaos; they’re playing on a shortened court with lowered hoops, so the eight-year-old girls have a chance at scoring, but Eddie’s not sure they’re even keeping score. Everyone is traveling, constantly, and Charlie gets in trouble for elbowing some other girl, which is bullshit, since Eddie _saw_ the same girl push Charlie, like, two minutes ago and the ref didn’t say anything. 

Myra talks with the other moms—it’s mostly moms at these things—and Eddie keeps Frank occupied, taking him for walks around the suburban high school when he gets restless, and plying him with games on his phone just to keep him quiet so Eddie can _think_ for a moment. But he still can’t come up with a brief articulation of his feelings about Richie, so he doesn’t text him, and Richie doesn’t reach out, either. 

The teams order pizza for lunch and there’s an entire hour of social time that makes Eddie’s skin crawl. Finally, by four in the goddamn afternoon, the last game is finished and there’s an overlong awards ceremony because everyone needs to take a million pictures. Charlie’s team lands in fourth place out of six, so apparently someone was keeping score. 

Eddie wants to get back on the road as soon as it’s over, but now Charlie and her teammates have hatched a plan to go out to dinner—the plan involves chanting ‘McDonald’s’ until their parents cave—so he’s trapped for another hour and a half. When they finally load back into the car, Charlie, with her fourth place ribbon around her neck, says, “I can’t wait to show this to Uncle Richie.” 

Myra says, “You can tell him all about it,” not reacting at all to the name. 

_Uncle Richie?_ Has this been a thing? How did Eddie miss that? 

While they drive home—longer than the trip out because somehow there’s a shitload of traffic on this Saturday evening—Eddie wonders whether Richie will even be there when they get back.

It’s not an entirely baseless fear. Richie is still there, but he’s packed up his room and loaded his single duffel bag into his car. He sits at the kitchen table, waiting for their return. 

“Uncle Richie!” Charlie greets him, and Richie doesn’t react to it either. ( _When did_ this _happen?_ Eddie wonders, vaguely resentful.) “I got a ribbon.” She holds it up for his inspection and he smiles and asks a few questions about the tournament. 

“We already ate, but if you–” Myra begins, stepping toward the refrigerator. 

Richie shakes his head. “Thanks, but I’m good. I actually– I hate to do this so suddenly, but I have to go back to L.A.”

Eddie’s stomach swoops, but he catches on one particular detail. “Are you driving?”

Richie looks at him, lips pursed. “Uh, flying. I’m gonna sell my car or… drive it into the Hudson or something.” 

“Oh, no.” Myra, standing with her hand on the fridge door looks– genuinely upset. “Why so sudden?”

“It’s a… work thing,” Richie says, and Eddie knows that he’s lying again. “Sorry. Thanks so much for putting up with me for so long. I’ll miss you guys. Lovely…” He fights the smile on his face until it looks less sad. “Lovely family, Eddie.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says hollowly. “Thanks.” 

Richie hugs both of the kids, then Myra; she thanks him quietly, and Eddie can feel the shame radiating off Richie as clearly as his own. Then Richie heads toward the door and Eddie says he’ll walk him out, hurrying after him. 

“Hey, can we talk for a second?” Eddie says, once they’re out on the driveway.

Richie sighs, one hand on the roof of his sedan, the other on the open driver-side door. “I guess.”

He gets into the driver seat and Eddie slides into the passenger seat. They both close their doors and their ears reverberate with the silence. 

“I’m sorry,” Richie starts.

Eddie shakes his head. “No.”

“I’m gonna go, and I’ll do whatever you need me to do, if that’s, like, never talk to you again, or–” 

“No, Richie, listen to me. Please.” Eddie waits out another moment of silence, breaths held, before he continues. He says, “I don’t want you to go. I’m just…” He rakes his hands over his eyes, and it’s still impossible to find the right words. “Fuck.” 

“Fuck,” Richie agrees, crossing his arms. He shivers. 

“I mean, I get it, if you want to leave, but I… I don’t want you to.” 

“Eddie.” 

“I know.” 

“Eddie…” Richie’s voice is pained, and Eddie looks over to meet his eyes, shiny and sad. 

“What am I gonna do?” Eddie asks quietly. 

Richie laughs and looks away, wrecked. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that.” 

“Well, you know that my marriage hasn’t been great and–” 

“Do I know that?” 

“Yeah?” Eddie shrugs and crosses his own arms. “I mean. I’ve told you… things. You’ve seen–” 

“Dude, I thought that was just normal, like, old married couple bullshit–” 

“You kissed me.” 

The pressure gauge ticks up. Richie rubs his face, over two-day stubble. Eddie’s skin prickles remembering the feeling of it. 

“Yeah, I did,” Richie says, finally. “What are we gonna do?” 

Eddie answers, honestly, “I don’t know.” 

“I don’t think I can be here and act normal, like, it’s fucked up–” 

“Where were you gonna go? Tonight?” Eddie asks. “You’re not gonna sell your car, that’s–” 

“I got a hotel for a few nights,” Richie says. “After that, I don’t know. My agent got me–” 

Eddie interrupts, “He’s officially your agent now?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Richie nods. “I signed on the dotted line.” 

“Congrats, man.” Eddie rests a hand on his forearm and Richie freezes until Eddie pulls back. 

“Anyway.” Richie crosses his arms more tightly across his chest. “My agent got me a couple meetings with the writing staff for, like, the Late Show and the Tonight Show, and actually, he thinks hosting SNL would be a good venue for me to, you know, publicly come out, which, I think that’s kinda intense, but he’s, like, convinced that that’s what’ll get my career back on track. Although he keeps asking me if I’m dating anyone, seems to think it’ll play better if I have a cute little boyfriend to trot out, which… well.” Richie laughs, tense. 

All Eddie says is, “So, New York?” 

Richie snaps, “What do you mean, ‘So, New York’?” 

“You’re planning to stay in New York. You’re not going back to L.A.” 

“I guess. Or I _was_ planning on it, before…” Richie makes a vague gesture with one hand. “If the meetings go well.” 

“I think you should,” Eddie says carefully. “You could get your own place. We could still… see each other.” 

“‘See each other.’ Right.” There’s a sharp edge to Richie’s voice. 

“Richie.” 

Richie turns to him, not shying away from eye contact anymore; Eddie flinches back but only slightly. “I know what you’re suggesting, Eddie, what you’re trying to do here, so you can stop speaking in euphemism. And I gotta say, I’m not into it. This doesn’t make me feel great! It makes me feel really shitty, actually–”

Eddie’s eyes widen. “You think _I_ don’t feel shitty?” 

“I didn’t say–” 

The spark of anger is enough for all the words that have been roiling inside Eddie’s head to spill out. “Richie, I’ve been in hell ever since you arrived, thinking about you all the time, and I hoped it would pass but it just got worse, and I feel fucking awful because last night, it makes me feel a tiny bit better, for a second, just– _relief_ – but then I think about it more and of course I feel like the world’s biggest piece of shit, like, what I’m doing to Myra and to my family and how easily we could have been caught and what I’m doing to _you_ , dragging you into this, when you didn’t fucking ask for any of this– and I know that things can’t be the same now, but things were _good_ , like having you here, and, god, my kids love you–” 

“Uncle Richie,” Richie mutters. 

“Yeah!” Eddie throws up his hands in exasperation. “Charlie was so upset that ‘Uncle Richie’ didn’t come to her game today, and that’s entirely my fault.” 

Richie says, “What are Dad and Uncle Richie doing in the bathroom?” 

Eddie’s eyebrows flare with another spike of anger. “Shut the _fuck_ up, Richie.” 

“Sorry,” he says quietly. Then after a minute of silence, he says, “For what it’s worth, I was also hoping it would pass. How I felt about you. Like, when we were kids, I really, _really_ wanted it to pass. But I also… didn’t. And then I moved away and I forgot about you and it went away, sort of, but it didn’t? Well, like. When I saw you again, at the Jade, and I hit that fucking gong, I was like… oh, shit. There it is. That… _thing_ I’ve been… missing. For twenty-five years. And I don’t know, Eddie, if you had died, I don’t know what I would have done, how I would have moved on with my life, I couldn’t move on even when I couldn’t remember you, so I don’t know how I ever could have–” 

Richie’s voice breaks into a higher register and Eddie panics. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, reaching toward him. Richie flinches away at first, but then allows Eddie to hold his arm, rubbing his thumb soothingly, his other hand on his shoulder, while Richie breathes, head in his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” Richie says miserably, muffled. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. This has all been… really intense.” Eddie glances back toward the front door; it’s closed and it’s dark outside. They’re not visible here. So Eddie pulls him into a hug, leaning over the console. Richie curls into his neck, shoulders shaking. 

“I’m sorry,” Richie says again. “I’m such a fucking mess, oh my god.” 

“Are you kidding?” Eddie rubs his back, aware of the closeness, the warmth of Richie’s body and his breath on his neck. “ _I’m_ a fucking mess. You are not a mess. You’ve been my rock, dude.” 

“Stop,” Richie says, with a weak breath of laughter. 

“No, Richie, I would not– I would not get through _any_ of this without you. And you’ve been, I mean. You’ve been here for me. Maybe I’ve taken you for granted, didn’t think about what any of this was doing to you. It’s all been what I wanted.” Eddie strokes the back of his head, smooths out his hair. “What do you want to do now, Richie?” 

Richie moves against him, sits up slowly, and lifts his glasses to wipe his eyes. He laughs at himself, sad and soft. “I have no idea.” 

“That’s okay,” Eddie assures him. “That’s fine. But don’t just do what you think I want you to do. Don’t leave because you think that’s what I want. I want you to do what you want to do, okay?” 

Richie fixes him with a look of suspicion. “That’s a really nice way to frame you putting all the decision-making stress on me. How generous of you.” 

Eddie smiles. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

“Incidentally, if I do stay…” Richie looks out the windshield, back toward the house. “What do we say to your family when I walk back in there?” 

Eddie considers, still smiling. “That I agreed to start paying you for your cooking and cleaning?” 

Richie barks a laugh. “Yeah. This was all a bargaining tactic. The strike is over.” 

—

Richie does stay in his hotel for a few days. Long enough to have believably flown to L.A., worked a bit, and flown back. In reality, all he’s done is stay in Manhattan and have lunch meetings with important people, with the mutual but unstated understanding that they’re job interviews. The meetings go well. His new agent, Christian, does a great job of selling Richie (Richie’s word, not Christian’s; Christian calls it framing). He’s younger than Richie by a decade, but he’s a good agent and he seems genuinely interested in Richie and what Richie wants. And he doesn’t have many other clients yet so Richie gets a lot of personal attention and that’s what he needs at the moment. Some positive, uncomplicated, one-on-one attention.

It does Richie a world of good to be away from Eddie for a while. He feels lighter; he clears his head; he reminds himself that he’s got, at least, a few more things going for him. 

But after a few days, Richie returns to the Kaspbrak home. He was planning to. The story is: He needed some time to tie up loose ends in L.A., and now he’s decided to relocate to New York for good. And if they wouldn’t mind, can he stay with Eddie and Myra again? Just while he gets his feet under him? 

It makes it worse to tell this lie, and it makes it worse that Myra and the kids are happy that Richie is back. But Richie feels awful all the time anyway, so whatever. 

He didn’t discuss with Eddie exactly how long he’s planning to stay; Richie figures he’ll start looking for his own place and move in at the beginning of the new year. And they didn’t discuss whether they’re actively sleeping together now. Richie, erring on the side of caution, assumes: one-time thing. And that’s fine. It makes him feel slightly less awful.

They don’t get much time alone for the first week anyway. Eddie’s working close to full time hours again. Richie’s working, too. Or at least he’s going to meetings and trying to write at various coffeeshops. Christian sends him a few scripts, but they’re mostly bullshit. Richie stays up late on weeknights paging through scripts in his room. He knows Eddie likes to wander the house late at night, but he doesn’t give in to the temptation to go find him. He needs to be Eddie’s rock right now, not someone who tortures him, causes him turmoil and grief. 

And they’re getting closer to the holidays, so everyone’s busy. One morning, Richie wakes up to find he’s been added to a new group chat—all the Losers, minus Eddie—created by Stan. The purpose, apparently, is to organize a surprise get-together for New Year’s Eve.

Richie: _Why are we surprising Eddie?_

Bill: _Because he almost died?_

Richie: _So did Stan._

Stan: _Yeah, but I don’t like surprises._

Richie: _Does Eddie?_

Bev: _It doesn’t have to be a surprise, I guess._

Richie: _Oh whatever. He’ll like it. I’m in._

So Richie makes casual inquiries into the Kaspbraks’ New Year’s plans to discover that they don’t have any, and he helps Ben locate and secure an AirBnB nearby. It’ll be fun. He’s looking forward to seeing everyone, but he’s not looking forward to puncturing whatever weird bubble he’s created here. He’s worried they’ll see right through him. 

On a Friday night, a few days before Christmas, Richie has a fancy ‘work dinner’ with Christian. Richie might be starting to question this guy’s money management skills, but he’s also not about to turn up his nose at the city’s finest sashimi. It all pretty much tastes like raw fish to Richie, but Christian thoughtfully tastes each piece, nodding and humming his reactions. Richie is on his second vodka-sake cocktail when they get to the work part of the work dinner, and Christian starts laying out his plan for Richie’s comeback. 

“You have a public breakdown in Chicago,” he begins, and Richie is glad for the stiff drink, “You disappear for several months, only to turn up living with some buddy of yours and his family on Long Island, also you’re gay now. It’s hilarious.” 

Richie grimaces. “Thanks.” 

“You know what I mean, Rich,” he says. And Richie does. “If you want a career reset, this is your ticket. But you have to do it soon before everyone completely forgets about you.” 

“Why SNL though? I mean, are they even gonna let me host? Maybe I just do some small shows…” 

“Do you want people to see it? What do you mean, ‘small shows’?” Christian shakes his head. “No. No one’s gonna see that. Look, I’ll get you on SNL in… January, February. That’s my job, I’ll do that. In the meantime, you’ll start tweeting. Making some inroads, trying out some stuff.” 

Richie deadpans, “Tweeting?” 

“Yes, Rich.” Christian aims chopsticks at him, completely serious. “Tweet about those kids. I’m sure they’re giving you tons of free content.” 

When they’re done with dinner, it’s after eleven; Richie takes a cab back to Eddie’s, and it’s midnight by the time he unlocks the front door and creeps into the kitchen for a glass of water. 

Eddie, of course, is still up, sitting on the couch with a paused docuseries on the TV. “Hey,” he says, as soon as Richie steps into his line of sight. 

“Hey,” Richie says. 

Eddie has shaved his face. Fresh and smooth, apart from the prickle of follicles across his jaw. 

“How was your day?” Richie asks as he gets his water from the refrigerator. Brita filter, naturally. 

“Fine,” he says. “How was your meeting?” 

Richie takes a long drink and refills before he makes his way over to the living room. “Good. I think.” He settles down on the couch, at the other end as Eddie, an entire cushion square between them. “He wants me to tweet about your kids.” 

Eddie tilts his head in confusion. “What?” 

“I dunno.” Richie throws him a sidelong glance. “You shaved.” 

“You’re all non-sequiturs right now,” Eddie says with a laugh. Then, “I did.” 

“It looks…” Richie swallows. “Looks nice.” 

Eddie smirks with an un-self-conscious confidence that strikes Richie as very… grown-up. “So, you didn’t like the beard either?” 

“Either?” 

“Myra didn’t like it.” 

“I didn’t mind it,” Richie says, but he doesn’t quite mean it the way it sounds. 

“No?” Eddie prompts, his voice soft.

Eddie has shifted closer to him on the couch, encroaching on the single cushion square that buffers them. Richie can feel the heat of his body now. He looks at Eddie, in his white t-shirt that stretches between his shoulders and his pecs, tufted over one nipple and bunched loose around his hips. Eddie, in his gray terrycloth sweatpants, the soft fabric folding and casting enticing shadows. Richie realizes he hasn’t seen much of Eddie’s body. He’s _felt_ a lot of him, but too rushed and fervent to commit to memory; he hasn’t _seen_ hardly any of him. His mouth is dry and his tongue smacks too loudly when he swallows and takes in a breath. 

Eddie’s face is close, eyes downturned and neck extended, the line of a tendon leading under the collar of his t-shirt. 

“Eddie,” Richie says. “We’re not gonna, like, make out on your couch, are you crazy?” 

With a sharp inhale, Eddie turns away and shifts to the other end of the couch. “I know, I know,” he says. “I wasn’t…” 

“I just– want to know what’s going on with you,” Richie says. “If this is, like, a reckless, trying-to-blow-up-your-life kinda thing, I don’t really want to be a part of it, but–” 

“It’s not,” Eddie insists, too loudly. They both flinch. “It’s not,” he repeats, volume under control. “It’s not that.” 

“Then what is it?” 

“Can we go for a drive?” 

“Why?” Richie waves his arms around in a sarcastic gesture. “Is there something about this setting that seems unsuitable for a private conversation?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Eddie says. “Let’s go to your room.” 

Richie’s eyes widen in disbelief and he hisses, “Oh, sure, that’s not suspicious at all.” 

“Just to talk. Come on.” Eddie hauls himself up—with some effort, leaning on his cane—and Richie reaches for his elbow to help. “I got it,” Eddie snaps. Richie apologizes and backs off. 

They go to the guest room which, to Richie, seems like the worst possible location: close to prying ears, and a suspicious place for them to hang out late at night with the door shut since there’s not even a TV in here, nothing other than a bed. Richie closes the door, and Eddie lowers himself to sit on the edge of the guest bed, still neatly made from the morning. Richie stays standing, leaning against the back of the door, keeping a wary distance, arms crossed. 

Richie says, “Okay, let’s talk.” 

“I thought we were on the same page.”

Eddie has only just begun, but Richie interrupts in exasperation: “What page is that?” 

“Can you let me talk?” 

“Yeah, fine.” 

“Like, Jesus, I was getting to it.” 

“Then get to it!” Richie throws his hands up. “I’m not stopping you!” 

“You literally won’t stop talking, Richie.” 

“Grow up and talk over me!” 

Eddie is laughing, which is– unexpected. “Jesus Christ, Richie, can you sit down?” He pats the mattress next to him. 

Instead of joining him on the bed, Richie slides down against the wall and lands sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the floor. 

“Show-off,” Eddie mutters. 

“What, you can’t do this?” Richie asks, hands on his bent knees. “I probably can’t get up on my own, but I can still do this.” 

“Okay, so,” Eddie says, resetting their momentum and clasping his hands together in his lap. “We talked, you know, when you were gonna leave, and you decided to stay. But since then, we haven’t been alone together like, at all. And I feel like that’s been on purpose, like maybe you’ve been avoiding me?” 

“Whoa, whoa, okay. Time out.” Richie makes a T with his hands. “The page you thought we were on… It was the one where we–” He lowers his voice to a whisper-hiss, “Where we mutually agreed to start having an affair?” 

Eddie shifts on the edge of the bed, obviously uncomfortable, like he wants to close the distance between the two of them. “Well, you said– I mean, I thought you said– not in as many words but– you said you’ve been in love with me since we were kids, right? I mean, did I misread that?” 

God, Richie wants to die. He pulls his knees up to his chest and drops his forehead to them, eyes pinched shut. 

After a moment, Eddie mutters with wry humor, “How can you still sit like that? You’re forty.” 

“I’m aware,” Richie snaps, lifting his head. 

Eddie looks… not the way he expected. He doesn’t look smug or proud or angry. He looks earnest and sad and affectionate and– Richie does love him. God fucking damn it. 

“You didn’t misread it,” he says. 

“Okay.” Eddie smile-frowns. 

“Okay.” Richie rocks forward, using the momentum to pop up onto his knees and then to his feet. “If that’s all you wanted to talk about.” 

Eddie holds his hands up, palms out. “No, Richie, wait. I’m sorry. I… God, the way I feel about you.” His hands fall back to his side, fidgeting and fisting the bed sheets. He looks down at the carpeted floor between them. “The way I feel about you is… I didn’t even know it was _possible_ , you know? I feel completely insane, or I feel… I feel fixated on you, and it fucking sucks, like I didn’t even know what I was missing. And maybe it was better not to know? But now I know and I can’t go back, it’s just gonna feel empty. With Myra, I never feel like I _need_ her, you know?” 

To Richie, Myra’s name is always a punch to the gut. Horrible guilt crushing down. Jealousy, too, which feels even worse. He leans back against the door, deflated, staring levelly into Eddie’s pleading eyes. 

“But I need you, Richie,” he says. “And it’s… I don’t know, it’s this depth of feeling. It _scares_ me. Is that what it is? What it’s supposed to be?” 

Richie is quiet for a long few seconds. He wants to laugh or cry or scream. Instead he says, “Are you asking me if you’re in love with me?” 

Eddie plays it with a smile and a little shrug. “I guess.” 

Richie nods. “I think… you need to figure that out for yourself.” 

The smile fades from Eddie’s face; he nods and, after a moment, stands up. Richie steps away from the door to let him leave, but Eddie pauses in front of him to say, “Goodnight.” 

And he looks so… vulnerable. And Richie’s long-held instinct to protect Eddie kicks in. Even though he’s learned a thousand times over that Eddie doesn’t need protecting, but sometimes, maybe, Eddie will let him do it anyway. Just because Richie needs it. So he opens his arms to him, and Eddie folds into a hug, wrapping his own arms around Richie’s waist and pressing his face to his shoulder. Richie holds him, breathing against his hair for a minute, their expanding chests pressed together. 

“Goodnight.” Richie loosens his arms. 

Eddie falls away from him, but not completely. Hands still on his waist, he looks up at Richie and—slowly—rises to kiss him. It’s soft and slow, more room to think and feel than the last time they were this close. Richie exhales long through his nose and brings a hand to hover under Eddie’s jaw; he feels the press of Eddie’s teeth and the tip of tongue on his bottom lip. Then, with a soft gasp for air, Eddie pulls back. He sinks down so his forehead is at Richie’s mouth-level again, and so close. Richie takes the bait and leans forward to brush his lips against his forehead, at his hairline. 

“Goodnight,” Eddie says again. He untangles himself and slips out of Richie’s room. 

Alone, Richie takes two steps and turns to fall dramatically onto the bed, on his back, arms spread wide. Like a lovestruck teenage girl in a high school romcom or something. But unlike the fictional female protagonist he’s channeling, Richie is definitely sporting a semi. From that. A kiss that lasted all of two seconds. 

Richie is so thoroughly, completely fucked. 

—

On the Saturday before Christmas, there’s a dusting of snow on the dead grass outside. During the preceding week, the temperature dropped quickly and stayed low. That morning, Eddie directs Richie through some tasks he would usually do: dragging the artificial Christmas tree up from the basement, assembling it, and hanging up the Christmas lights on the house while Myra and the kids work on decorating the tree. 

Outside on the driveway, Eddie holds the stepladder while Richie strings the icicle lights up from hook to hook above the garage. At one point, in service of a joke, he wraps the line of lights around his neck like a noose.

“Alright, kick the ladder,” he says to Eddie.

Eddie grimaces. 

“If you don’t laugh it just seems sad.” Richie unwinds it from around his neck. “You have to laugh.” 

When they go back inside, Myra has hot coffees waiting for them. She thanks Richie, and says, “We wouldn’t have put our lights up otherwise.” 

“I would do it,” Charlie calls from the living room. She’s teetering on a chair as she reaches toward the top of the tree to place a small, delicate ornament. 

“Yeah.” Richie rushes into the living room to hold the chair steady. “Charlie could have done it.”

Early afternoon, they take the kids to the neighborhood ice skating rink. The kids get decked out in rented gear, tiny children’s hockey skates and helmets and kneepads, then head out onto the rink with Richie, who opted not to trade in his boots for skates. Eddie and Myra stay mostly in the warming house to watch. Richie looks gawky and awkward, like a deer walking across a frozen pond. The kids take full advantage of their protective gear; Charlie finally talks Richie into flinging her across the ice, and he does, spinning her around and sending her flying, arms cartwheeling to keep her balance.

Eddie and Myra sit on a bench and drink hot chocolate and watch through the window. “Do you ever think this is weird?” he asks her after a few minutes. “Richie being here?” 

She thinks about it. “At first, sure. My friends thought it was weird.” 

Eddie mutters, “Did Val say something?” 

Myra rolls her eyes. “Yes, but it wasn’t only Val.” 

“Did she say it first and everyone else just agreed with her?” 

“Can I answer you?” Myra asks. “Can I answer your question? Or do you want to talk about Val now?” 

“Fine.” Eddie takes another sip of his gritty hot chocolate. 

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Myra says. “Honestly. It’s unconventional, but this year has been really hard and this makes it… a little easier.” 

Her voice wavers, and Eddie, acting on instinct, clutches her hand. She squeezes back. 

“I mean, look.” She smiles and nods toward the window. Richie is spinning Frank around, who’s not even standing on his skates anymore, instead sliding around on his kneepads. “He’s really good with them. And it’s nice because they never got to know any of your family. No siblings, and your mom died before Charlie was born.” 

“That’s–” Eddie begins.

“‘That’s probably for the best,’ I know. So you’ve told me.” Myra chuckles and Eddie smiles. “Their family is a little bigger now.” 

Eddie turns to look at Myra, his wife, the mother of his children. Really look at her, for the first time in… he can’t remember how long. She’s become a bit like Eddie’s house in that way, part of his daily landscape, fading into the background; he no longer notices her. Her soft pale skin and fair hair and green eyes. She chews on her bottom lip when she’s nervous. She loves Celine Dione. She’d always wanted to be a mom. She told Eddie that, pretty soon into their relationship. Probably far too soon; it was the type of thing that scared away most guys. They were twenty-nine and thirty, and Myra was very clear about what she was looking for, from the beginning. A husband, a family. Two kids before she was thirty-five. Eddie wasn’t scared away; in fact, he admired her practicality and directness. She had a way of talking about the things she wanted that made him think he wanted the same things. It was all very sensible and grounded. And shouldn’t Eddie want this anyway? A wife, a family? He wasn’t getting any younger. His mother was dying. He was going to be alone soon. 

Then time passed and Eddie realized that he still felt pretty much the same as he always had, and he knows he can’t say that out loud because he loves his family more than anything, he really does, but they didn’t _fix_ him. Eddie isn’t so deluded as to believe that any other person _can_ fix him, not anymore. He knows his only hope is to work on himself. And that’s fine. He’s always been a tinkerer, and after returning to Derry, he finally has the right parts. 

His starting place, right now, is: He loves his family. He loves Myra. He wants to continue raising their children together. She’s a good mom. But if he could erase the fact that they’re married, he absolutely would. It’s a nice fantasy to live in for a moment. Waking up tomorrow to find that he and Myra are semi-compatible friends who have never been involved romantically or sexually, but have two biological children together, and they don’t really spend time together outside of their child-raising duties, but they’re amicable enough. 

Eddie thinks, probably, what he wants is a divorce. But that’s not a ‘waking up tomorrow’ type of thing. 

Half an hour later, when Richie returns with the kids, his eyes flicker to Myra and Eddie’s clasped hands—and then to Eddie’s eyes, and then away. He plasters a smile back on his face and helps Charlie and Frank get their skates off and get hot cocoa. He gives his tiny, dehydrated marshmallows to Frank. 

It’s dark by the time they’re home. Myra starts assembling a buffet of leftovers from the fridge. Charlie and Frank whine that they don’t want leftovers and they want to order pizza or Chinese. Richie says, “Why not both?” which is the opposite of helpful. Kids shouldn’t have a taste of reckless adult freedom at this age; it’ll mess up the wiring of their brains. 

Eddie helps talk them back down from the temptation, and they’re almost content with the microwaved three-day-old lasagna. It’ll have to be thrown out after four days, anyway. But then Eddie undermines his own point when he announces that he’ll probably grab dinner out. 

“I have to finish up Christmas shopping.” Eddie pauses, then adds, “Richie, do you wanna come with?” 

“Uh, sure.” Richie throws him a smile, then directs a sheepish glance to Myra. “I’m not trying to get out of the lasagna, I swear. I’ll eat some for breakfast tomorrow.” 

Eddie drives them to the nearest mall. It’s a mob scene of course, the Saturday before Christmas; Eddie guiltily pulls out his rarely-used handicap tag in order to snag a good parking spot. 

“Hey, if you got it, flaunt it,” Richie says, and hops out of the car. 

They go straight to the toy store and scan the shelves of Legos and Barbies and Disney merch. Richie alternates between expressing shock at how expensive some toys are and shock at how cheap some are. 

“It’s kinda cruel, don’t you think?” Richie muses, spinning a tiny Hot-Wheels race car against his palm. “When you’re a kid, you want this stuff and you can’t buy it. And when you’re an adult, you can buy this stuff but you don’t want it.” 

“That’s life, I guess.” Eddie shrugs and picks up a Playmobil zoo box set for Charlie. It’s one of the eyebrow-raising expensive items, at over $200; but she’ll love it. It’s got an elephant. “You always want what you can’t have.”

At that, a few emotions roll through Richie’s eyebrows. “Are you trying to make some weird sexual metaphor about Legos?” 

First Eddie says, “Don’t say ‘sexual’ in a toy store,” then he says, “This is Playmobil, not Legos,” and then he says, “Maybe I am.” 

“Oh, god,” Richie says, glancing over his shoulder nervously. “I need to get out of here.” 

But he clearly doesn’t mean it because he picks out a couple smaller items for Charlie and Frank and stands patiently in line behind Eddie at the check-out.

After, Eddie leads the way through the mall to a kitchen goods store because Myra’s big request this year was a Vitamix. 

“Why does she need a Vitamix?” Richie asks, following after him. He rests his hand on Eddie’s elbow as they slip through the crowd. 

“To… blend things?” Eddie guesses. 

He finds one boxed on the shelf, and is about to head to the register but Richie hesitates. 

“Come on,” Eddie says. “Let’s go eat.”

“I should… buy a gift for Myra, right?” 

Eddie pauses. “Maybe?”

“It’d be really weird if I didn’t, right?” 

“I guess?” 

So Eddie, in one of the most surreal experiences of his life, helps Richie pick out a Christmas present for his wife. After much deliberation and nervous bickering about how much money is appropriate for him to spend, they decide on a Nespresso machine. “It’s like Keurig for people who are too classy for Keurig,” Richie says. “I’m surprised you don’t have one already.” It’s more money than Eddie wanted Richie to spend, but he justifies it by saying it’s a gift that they can all enjoy. 

Then they check out and take their purchases to the car before returning to the mall for dinner. After some friendly arguing, Eddie gives in to Richie’s request to go to Applebee’s. Sitting at a high-top table for two, with two awful cocktails between them, Eddie takes a deep breath and says, “So, maybe we should talk about last night.” 

Richie nods and takes a slow sip from his goldfish-bowl-sized margarita. “Maybe.”

“I don’t intend to stay with her forever, you know,” Eddie says. “I just need to wait until the timing is… a little better.” 

“Oh, this is what they warn you about,” Richie says. “This is the part when he says, ‘Yeah, baby, I’m gonna leave my wife for you.’ You can’t fool me. Remember, the Monica Lewinsky scandal happened during my formative years. Left a big imprint on me.” 

Eddie rubs his temples, sighing. “Shut up, Richie. I swear to god. I’m trying to be serious. Also, we were in our 20s during the–” 

“Formative,” Richie says again, grinning. “It was formative.” 

“You’re impossible.” 

There’s a minute of distraction as their peppy waiter descends on them to take dinner orders. When he leaves, Richie’s face is serious, any trace of joking vanished. 

He says, “Eddie, maybe I’m trying to save you from saying something you don’t want to say.” 

Eddie bristles. “You don’t need to _save_ me from anything, actually.” 

Richie’s eyebrows arch and he smiles without joy; it’s a baring of teeth. “Really? As I recall, I had to _save_ you from dying when you got fucking skewered through the chest by a giant fucking clown-spider and I had to carry you out of a collapsing building before you bled out.” 

It’s too loud, and the couple at the table next to them throws confused glances in their direction. Eddie doesn’t return Richie’s anger; if that’s what Richie wants, he’s going to have to work a bit harder. Besides, he’s not angry at Richie, not at all. His chest constricts with shame. 

“I never thanked you for that,” Eddie says quietly. 

Richie’s face falls. “I don’t want you to thank me.” 

“You saved my life.” 

“I almost got you killed.” 

Eddie shakes his head. “What? No, I think the thing that almost killed me was… you know…” His eyes flicker to their curious neighbors before he says, quietly, “The clown.”

“They told me what happened,” Richie says, voice low but firm. “That I was in the deadlights and you charged in after me. I mean, you weren’t even gonna go down there until I talked you into it.” 

“Wait, Richie, this is what you’re hung up on? I’m _glad_ I went down there.” Eddie leans toward him over the table, trying to catch his eye. “I couldn’t have lived with myself if I didn’t. What if something had happened to you? To any of you? Richie, I like that you think I’m brave… I just don’t want to let you down.” 

Richie looks sick. “You shouldn’t have to prove yourself to me.” 

“It’s not like that,” Eddie insists. “You… help me be the person I want to be.” 

Richie stares at him for a second, his eyes shiny. Then he blinks a few times and lets out a sad laugh. “Shit. That’s kinda…”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees. “Well. It’s true.” 

On the drive back from the mall, they don’t talk much. Things feel charged and Eddie is overly aware of every movement of his own body, when he swallows and breathes, when he lifts his head to glance in the review mirror. 

Eventually, Eddie, hands itching on the steering wheel, acts on a building impulse and veers course. Richie must pick up on the change in direction, but he doesn’t say anything until Eddie pulls into a deserted county park. He parks in the empty lot and kills the engine. The inside lights blink on then slowly dim.

“I just…” Eddie laughs, tense. “There’s nowhere to be alone with you.”

“I should have realized that was all a ploy,” Richie teases. But his voice is rough. “‘Christmas shopping.’ Yeah, right.” 

In one fluid motion, he unbuckles his seat belt and leans across the center console to kiss Eddie. Eddie kisses him back, twisted toward him in his seat. Richie is touchier than he was the last time, unrestrained as he slides a hand to grip Eddie’s thigh. The position gets uncomfortable quickly though, Eddie’s head craned to one side, his body stiff. 

When Richie clicks the release for Eddie’s seatbelt, Eddie says, “Backseat.” 

Richie nods and pulls back immediately to open his door. 

Unfortunately, the backseats in Eddie’s Cadillac Escalade are each occupied by a child’s car seat. And a number of shopping bags and boxes sit on the floor in front of and in between the seats. Richie and Eddie look at each other through the car, smiling awkwardly. Then Richie climbs inside and removes one car seat, then the other, and banishes them to the third row bench seat, along with their Christmas shopping haul. Then he helps Eddie inside, grasping his forearm to hoist him up, until he lands in the seat. Richie lands on top of him, in his lap, and closes the door. 

“There,” Richie says, huffing. “That was a lot of work. The things they don’t tell you about sleeping with a DILF.”

Richie is straddling him, warm and heavy in his lap, so there’s no hope for Eddie to hide how he feels. But he makes a half-hearted attempt anyway, grumbling, “Shut up, Richie.” He further undermines himself by kissing him. Some fumbling later, Eddie manages to get the seat reclined, and they fall backward with a thud. Richie yelps, Eddie grunts, and they both laugh. 

“Is this okay?” Richie asks, of their position. “I’m not hurting you?” 

“This is fine. It’s great,” Eddie says, still smiling. “I’ll let you do all the work.” 

Richie looks down at him, smiling, hands braced on either side of Eddie’s head. It’s dark, and there’s a blue cast to the light that shines through the tinted windows. Richie’s glasses cut shadows across his face. His expression is painfully fond, kind of goofy, and when he kisses Eddie again it’s not rushed or aggressive like the last time. But some urgency bleeds into it, as Richie mouths at Eddie’s jaw and rocks in his lap. Then, of course, there’s the setting and the circumstances. As shitty as it makes him feel before and after, the illicit nature of their relationship adds an undeniable thrill. He likes knowing that Richie wants him badly enough to ignore the risks, ignore his own conscience. 

Eddie’s hands roam Richie’s body, the dip of his lower back, the curve of his ass. He pulls Richie closer, encouraging him to move against him. 

“Is this, like…” Richie breathes. “Public indecency? Technically?”

“Only if we get caught.” Eddie tilts his face up to reach Richie’s neck, latching on with his mouth just below his ear. 

Richie moans, half-voiced, before he saves face with a laugh. “Are you a thrill-seeker, Eds? Is that what this is about? Do we need to have an intervention?” 

Eddie says, “Richie,” against his skin, scolding or pleading, and Richie shuts up. 

In fact, he does more than shut up; Richie pulls back and slides down Eddie’s body until he’s half-crouched in front of the seat—this car is nothing if not spacious—fingers on the buttons of Eddie’s shirt.

“Hey.” Eddie speaks and acts before his brain catches up. His hands are on Richie’s, stopping him. 

Richie looks up at him, dumbstruck, mouth open. 

Eddie gulps. “Sorry.” He doesn’t withdraw his hands. 

“Is it your injury?” 

Eddie nods. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Richie says. “We can skip the nipple play for now.”

Eddie barks a laugh. “I just– don’t want to ruin the mood. It’s real _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ down there.” 

Now Richie laughs, baffled. “What? What the fuck does that mean? Like, snakes? Like, Harrison Ford in his prime? Either way, I’m down.” 

“No!” Eddie laughs helplessly into his hands. “Like, when the Nazi’s face melts? I dunno, that’s what it reminds me of.”

“Well, now I’m _really_ curious.” Richie’s hands rest on Eddie’s knees, rubbing his thumbs in small circles. 

Eddie hesitates. He can’t avoid this forever, but he doesn’t want Richie to see where he’s broken, to feel like he has to be gentle. Not yet. If there’s any illusion left to maintain, he wants to cling to it. 

It takes only a second for Richie to pick up on his discomfort. His smile softens, and he says, “What if I keep my eyes closed?” 

“What?” 

Eddie stills as Richie’s hands creep back up his chest to the first button. Richie rises in a fluid motion, hovering over him, and presses a kiss to the hollow of his neck. He undoes a button and kisses the newly exposed skin, his eyes shut. Richie continues traveling down, seeing Eddie with his mouth, over scar tissue, thick and marred. Both of Eddie’s hands wind into Richie’s hair, moving with him.

“You don’t wear undershirts,” Richie says to his navel. “It drives me crazy.” 

Eddie shivers as Richie’s nose runs against the grain of the hair on his stomach. “Why? The extra laundry?” 

Richie laughs in an exhale, tickling Eddie’s skin. “What? No. I’m not talking about fucking laundry right now, who are you?” 

Eddie smiles fondly, tightening his fingers in Richie’s hair. “You can open your eyes now, Rich.” 

Richie does, his gaze upturned to Eddie’s face. When he runs his eyes down Eddie’s chest, nothing in his expression changes. He bows his head to kiss him again, above his left nipple then against his ribs. He answers his own question: “You’re you.” 

After, they recline side by side in the backseat captain chairs, separated by the aisle. Eddie’s shirt hangs open and his pants are undone, loose around his hips. Richie wears his white undershirt, his sweater and coat discarded somewhere, and his jeans pulled up around his hips, but still unzipped. It’s starting to feel slightly cold in the car as their body heat dissipates. 

Eddie sighs and says, “I want a cigarette. And I’ve never smoked.” 

“It’s the sleaziness,” Richie says dryly. “Fucking your mistress in a parked car. Very _Mad Men_. Might as well chain smoke now.” Richie pauses for only a moment, not long enough for Eddie to react to his weird tone, before he continues, “And you know, this car? Great for affairs. Do they put that in the ads? The 2016 Cadillac Escalade,” he says with gravitas, swiping a hand through the air. “Room for the whole family, plus a few side pieces.” 

Eddie turns to stare at him, face pressed against the headrest. 

“Anyway, do you want one?” Richie finds his coat on the floor between them and offers his pack. 

“Uh. Sure, yeah.” Eddie takes one. 

Richie leans forward to start the car so they can roll down their windows. Then he pulls the key again, and lights Eddie’s cigarette then his own. They smoke in silence for a few minutes, tapping ash out opposite windows. Eddie throws one arm behind his head, feeling the pleasant stretch in his chest. 

Then, out of nowhere, Richie asks, “When’s the last time you had sex with Myra?” 

Eddie chokes mid-inhale, hacking up smoke, eyes burning. “Jesus. Richie,” he wheezes. “Are you trying to kill me?” 

Richie shrugs, but his nonchalance is as sharp as broken glass. “I’m just curious.” 

“Are you mad at me?” Eddie asks. “What’s going on?” 

“Are you gay?” 

“You’re asking me a lot of questions,” Eddie says, huffing a laugh. 

“I asked you two questions,” Richie says, humorless. 

“Okay.” Eddie takes another drag of his cigarette and flicks ash out the window, staring at the smoldering nub. “The first question. Are you asking specifically about penetrative sex or about any kind of–?” 

Richie cuts him off, “Oh my _god_ , forget I asked. I don’t want to know.” 

“Okay, fine,” Eddie says. “The second question. I assume you’re asking me if I’m gay as opposed to bi or whatever, since it’s hopefully pretty clear by now that I’m not straight.” 

“Sarcasm isn’t a cute look on you, Eds.” 

“You either,” Eddie fires back. “And uh… I don’t know. I’m sorry. That’s the best answer you’re getting right now. My sample size is too small; I can’t make any extrapolations from you versus Myra to men versus women, as a whole. Need more data.” Eddie grins as Richie groans, exhausted. Sometimes Eddie can be the one to make bad jokes; how do you like _that_ , Richie?

Then Richie turns toward him with renewed focus. “You must have been with other people though. Before you got married.” 

Eddie’s cheeks warm. The embarrassment about his limited sexual history is something he gladly left behind when he married Myra, and thought he would never experience again, never have to endure this talk with another partner. 

“Sure,” he says, forced-casual. “I had one girlfriend after college for a year and a half.” 

“After college?” Richie sits up straighter. “Edward Kaspbrak, did you maintain your virginity throughout college? You must have been as tightly wound as a–” 

“I lived at home,” Eddie interjects, but Richie doesn’t hear him. 

“–as a fucking Swiss clock–” 

“That analogy doesn’t make any sense.” 

“My sincerest condolences to all of your classmates. And to your professors.” 

“I lived at home,” Eddie says again, grinning. “Jackass.” 

“So _what?_ ” Richie protests. “You didn’t have a car?” He gestures at their surroundings. “No Kaspbrak fuckmobile? Or you hadn’t discovered clandestine bathroom hook-ups yet?” 

Laughing, Eddie makes a half-hearted threat on Richie’s life. Then, nestling back against his seat, he says, “If you’re such a Casanova, then please, tell me all about your college days. Tell me how many strains of HPV you just gave me.” 

“Hey, now.” Richie scratches his face, chuckling. “There was exactly one girl when I was eighteen. Right out of the gate. And actually– she ended up being a lesbian as I recall, so… No harm, no foul.” 

Eddie laughs heartily. “I bet you looked like a cute little lesbian at that age.” 

“Hey, fuck you, dude. You were the cutest lesbian. With your fanny packs.” 

Eddie laughs even harder, holding his belly. He sees Richie watching him, out of the corner of his eye. 

When Eddie settles down, Richie sighs and says, “The guys… that I slept with in college, and after. It’s not as fun of a story. I mean, it was fine, I just didn’t take great care of myself.” 

Eddie nods, frowning. “Have you had boyfriends before?” 

“A few.” Richie shrugs. “Short-lived. I really– I mean. I was a mess. And in my thirties when I finally realized that having a real relationship might be a good thing, I was well on my way to being moderately famous, and a total closet-case, so—surprisingly—no self-respecting gay guy wanted to get mixed up in my bullshit for very long.” 

Richie’s flippancy breaks Eddie’s heart. He knows the tone and what it hides, and Richie must realize how transparent it is, so he’s not sure why Richie bothers to hide. But Eddie hides, too, in different ways. 

He smiles and reaches across the chasm between the seats to intertwine their fingers. “Aren’t we a match?” 

—

Christmas comes and goes without incident. Liz and Joe are with his family in Illinois for the holiday, so it’s just the Kaspbraks plus Richie. On Christmas Eve, they go to some suburban megachurch for a service that’s too heavy on the modern music. It’s been forever since Richie has gone to church, but the music was the only thing that ever made it worth it, in his opinion. The Kaspbraks are not a church family, but the kids were baptized, and they’ll probably get their first communions at some point, and Myra swears by the tradition of church on the major holidays. But they slip in and out of a pew toward the back, anonymous. 

On Christmas morning, some of the gifts around the tree and in stockings above the gas fireplace are from ‘Santa’ and some are from the family. Frank excitedly examines the plate of cookies and carrots (for the reindeer) that were left overnight. Each has a bite taken out of it. 

“Were the reindeer in the house?” Richie puzzles. “And why did a reindeer only eat half of a baby carrot? Did he not like it?” 

Charlie, who’s enjoying her first Christmas in on the joke, laughs along with Richie. (Did Santa bring the carrots up onto the roof for his reindeer, and they didn’t like them, so he brought the remnants back down the chimney?) But she’s a good big sister, and she doesn’t ruin the magic for Frank. 

When he opens his presents from Eddie’s family, Richie feels… like the biggest asshole in the world. Like maybe he should believe in hell again because he’ll definitely end up there. They give him flannel pajama pants and socks—and a couple patterned ties because, as Charlie puts it, he ‘doesn’t have any.’ Eddie laughs for five full minutes at this quip. 

Myra gives Eddie some expensive, spicy cologne that he seems confused by. She is thrilled with both the Vitamix and the Nespresso. 

As New Year’s approaches, Richie is assigned the task to loop Myra in on the plan, so he does, one afternoon in the week between the holidays while Eddie is at work and Myra is home with the kids. Richie makes himself too nervous for it, but it goes well. His opening line wasn’t great (“Hey, remember those other friends of Eddie’s? From, like, the hospital? In Maine?”), but she’s ready for better second impressions. She likes Richie now, after all (even though she definitely _shouldn’t_ ), so she trusts the rest of them by association. 

Eddie has to work during the day on New Year’s Eve, which fits into their surprise plan perfectly. Throughout the day, the Losers fly into New York and flock at the Kaspbrak home, reuniting with Richie and meeting Eddie’s family. Bill brings Audra, who everyone is happy to meet. She’s an inch taller than Bill, and cool, aloof and somewhat intimidating. And then there’s Stanley; most of them haven’t seen Stan in person since they were kids. The reunions are full of laughs and hugs and tears. He brings his wife Patty, and she gets pulled into equally emotional hugs by each of the Losers in turn. 

When Eddie gets home in the early evening, all the Losers and their significant others are sitting around the kitchen table, with extra chairs snagged from the dining room. He walks into the kitchen saying, “Whose car is that in the–?” 

And he stops, coat halfway off and staring at the eleven people gathered in his kitchen. 

Mike says, “It’s my car.”

Eddie says, “Holy shit.” And then he says again, laughing and hurrying toward them, “Holy _shit_.” 

There’s a lot of commotion as Eddie greets each of them, grabbing their arms, and putting the pieces together. “So, Richie– You knew about this? And you all met Myra and Charlie and Frank already? Holy shit. Stan, oh my god, man.” Eddie pulls him into a hug, laughing and slapping his back. “It’s so good to… see you? Meet you? Holy _shit_.” 

When things settle down, Bev tells him to pack up because they have a fancy AirBnB to party at. And Myra informs him that she’s already packed his bag. 

Between three cars—Eddie’s, Richie’s and Mike’s—they manage to transport everyone over to the AirBnB in Southampton. Myra plans to stay with the kids until nine o’clock or so, trick them into thinking it’s midnight, and then bring them back to sleep at home, while leaving Eddie to party all night with his friends. 

The house is incredible: three bedrooms in the main house and an additional two in a cottage in the backyard. There’s a pool and it’s close to the beach, so they’re already making plans for a repeat visit in the summer. The main floor is spacious and open, with a sprawling sectional in the living room that seats at least half of the group. Everyone gathers in the kitchen, unpacking food and drinks, and catching up. There’s a lot of ground to cover. 

Richie does the rounds, spending time with each of his friends, a plate of appetizers in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. (Which is, honestly, not a good system; he keeps trying to eat things off the plate with his mouth since he doesn’t have a free hand.) He starts with Bill and Audra, and it’s mostly industry-talk, comparing notes about people they’ve worked with and upcoming projects. Richie says he wants to do more film and television, but he’s planning to stay in New York, which leaves Bill confused.

“If you want to do TV, you have to come back to L.A.,” Bill says. “Right? I mean, unless you wanna be on cross-country flights twice a week.”

“Well, I don’t know.” Richie shrugs. “My agent thinks I can be New York-based.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause _he’s_ New York-based,” Bill points out, grinning. “Doesn’t wanna lose you.” 

Richie is suddenly very irritated that two of them had to end up in the entertainment industry. And that it had to be him and Bill. Why can’t Richie be the expert on one thing? 

Bill slaps Richie’s shoulder and says, “When you decide to come back, call me up, okay? I was just saying I’d like to work on a comedy.”

“I can do more than comedy,” Richie mutters.

“Okay, whatever. We can do horror.” Bill floats away from him to go talk to Ben, but not before saying, “I wanna work together, Rich!” 

Richie, abandoned, glances around the kitchen until he makes eye contact with his next victim: Stanley. As he makes his way over to him, Richie raises his plate to his mouth to slurp up an olive, and Stan rolls his eyes. “How’s, uh, accounting?” 

“It’s good,” Stan says. “How’s unemployment?” 

Richie grins. “Oh, it’s great. I highly recommend it.” 

Stan is a good friend to stand and watch with, so Richie does that while he eats, quietly surveying the rest of the party. 

Frank and Charlie get enough attention to last them a month, probably, everyone gushing over them and asking tons of questions. Charlie is awestruck by Bill in particular, a published author, and spends a long time telling him about her various stories; his advice seems genuine, and he’s apparently serious about getting her in touch with publishing connections whenever she’s ready for it. 

“Bill is networking with an eight-year-old,” Stan says, shooting Richie a look. They smile at each other. Richie suddenly feels, rushing back to him, the rapport that he and Stan had back then; they were the disillusioned members of the Losers Club, the skeptics, the least likely to get caught up in the rush of emotions. There were countless times when they would look at each other and roll their eyes about something Bill or Ben or Bev said. It feels nice to have that back for a moment. 

Bev and Audra are chatting, holding wine glasses in a mirrored posture that only draws more attention to their physical similarities. Audra is, as Bill mentioned before, a fan of her fashion line, but it seems like a more somber conversation than that. If Richie had to guess, Bev is updating her on the legal battles with her ex for the Marsh half of Rogan-Marsh. 

Myra and Mike seem to hit it off, and Richie has no idea what they’re talking about, but they spend a lot of time together. Frank floats around the party, but his home-base is around his mom’s legs. At one point, Mike crouches in front of him and lets Frank show him each of his toys—the ones he chose to bring tonight from his Christmas haul—a huge smile on his face. 

Ben and Eddie hang out with Patty, and Richie can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re laughing a lot. Eddie hasn’t stopped smiling since he got home from work; he’s as bright and loud as he was back in Derry at the Jade, surrounded by friends and a warm flood of memories. Ben’s voice floats over then, saying, “Yeah, when I FaceTimed Stan the first time he didn’t even recognize me.” Eddie bursts into laughter, throwing his head back and clapping his hands. On the comedown, he catches Richie’s eye from the across the room and his smile softens. His gaze lingers for a long moment before he rips it away. 

Shortly after nine, the adults stage a fake midnight for the kids, complete with a countdown and noisemakers. 

Not long after that, Myra leaves to take them home. She gets Eddie’s car keys from him and before she leaves, she calls out, “Take care of him, please!” 

“It’ll end better than the last time,” Richie promises. 

“Oh, too soon,” Bill says, loud and drunk. He jostles Eddie’s shoulders. “Too soon, too soon.”

The party begins in earnest then, once there are no kids to behave themselves for. Ben starts pouring tequila shots in the kitchen, Mike finds a deck of cards in a drawer in one of the bedrooms, and everyone gathers around the coffee table in the living room, sitting on the sectional and on cushions on the floor, for a misguided drinking game. No one needs the encouragement to drink, but they play anyway, mixing all their drinks into some unholy concoction in the middle, the cards spread facedown around it. 

But after only a few rounds, everyone abandons the game in favor of unstructured chatting. Mike razzes all of them for leaving Derry and becoming rich and successful (one of his favorite conversation topics), and then suggests that maybe the tide is turning.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Richie says, shaking his head. “You think I lost my job because of, like… karmic justice? Nah, man, I’m just a dumb asshole. And this one–” He gestures at Eddie who’s sitting on the couch across from him, “–had to go and get himself nearly killed. Was that also settling the score, Mike?” 

Mike raises his hands, defensive and laughing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. It’s just a theory.” 

“You and your theories,” Bill teases. 

Ben and Bev exchange a look and Ben says, slowly, “But we’re doing… a lot better than before, right? So that’s not because of…”

He trails off, and it’s clear that everyone in the room is aware it’s not a Losers Club-only audience. Patty and Audra sit next to their husbands, not contributing much to the conversation, but listening. 

“So, here’s my question,” Eddie says, sloppily directing his gaze back and forth between the two outsiders. “How much do you… know? About who we are? About Derry?” 

There’s a tense moment of silence. Richie wonders if he should cut Eddie off. 

Then Patty says, “Um, everything?” She glances at Stan who nods. “I think mostly everything. If you mean, the…” She makes a vague gesture, and Audra picks up where she left off:

“The clown stuff, yeah.” 

The room is silent for a long beat. Then Richie says, “Oh holy shit.” 

“Everything?” Eddie asks, eyes wide. “And you… believed it?” 

Patty and Audra exchange a look across the coffee table, perhaps realizing that they’re two people in a very unique situation. Audra says, “Well, not… immediately.” 

Bill laughs, an echo of tension in his voice and posture. “‘Not immediately’ is putting it lightly; it took some convincing.” 

She turns her gaze on him. “Let’s not forget that you disappeared for a week, Bill.” 

Bill surrenders, leaning back against the couch cushions. “Well, let’s not– Anyway. Patty, your situation was different.” 

Patty nods. “It was… I needed an explanation. And you all know Stan. I believed him.” He holds her hand between them and smiles sadly. 

“Shit.” Eddie laughs darkly and swirls his drink. “How did you even begin to explain any of this? Like, where did you start?” It seems to be a rhetorical question, and no one answers it, leaving a couple seconds of tense silence. 

Then Stan ventures, “So, you haven’t told Myra, I take it.” 

Eddie shakes his head, and he has this loose, destructive energy that puts Richie on edge; suddenly Richie feels sober and apprehensive, worried about what’s going to come out of Eddie’s mouth next. 

“No,” Eddie says. “Almost nothing. Like, besides whatever the hospital told her, what you all told her– she never asked me for more details. Maybe she didn’t want to know. Maybe she didn’t want me to lie to her. I don’t know.” He throws back the rest of his drink, winces, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. 

Alarms sound in Richie’s head; he stares at the coffee table for another moment before his diversionary instincts kick in. He grabs a card from the pile and flips it over. “Nine. That’s rhyme. My word is… rhyme.” 

He looks to Bev, to his right, and she says, unsurely, “Time?” 

Ben says, “Mime,” then Bill says, “Sublime,” and everyone boos him for being a show-off ( _Who is this guy? A fucking writer?_ ) and just like that, the tension is all but paved over. 

After the game but still before midnight, Bev finds Richie where he’s laying sprawled out on the floor next to Ben, having some dumbass rambling conversation about politics. (Ben said, “Did you see that… that Trump tweet from, like, 2012… when he said the electoral college is a ‘disaster for democracy’… like. I know.” And Richie said, “What even is the electoral college?” And Ben laughed at him for a full minute until he realized he was serious and then tried to explain it.) Bev stands over them and puts her foot on Richie’s belly and says, “Stop talking about Trump. Come smoke with me.”

“I thought you were quitting.” Ben cracks one eye open to peer up at her.

She switches her foot to Ben’s stomach, affectionately nudging him. “Yeah, it’s my New Year’s resolution, but it’s not 2017 yet, is it?” 

He grabs her ankle and she shrieks with laughter, nearly losing her balance. 

So, Richie and Bev go outside on the back patio, overlooking the yard and covered pool, and smoke. They investigate the backyard for a while, peeking their heads in the tiny, two-bedroom cottage. “I call sleeping here,” Bev says. “This is so cute. I would live here.” 

“I’ll live in the big house, and you can live here with Ben,” Richie says. “You’ll be my maid and Ben will do yard work. Fix my appliances. Clean the pool. God, imagine Ben as a pool cleaner with me for like two seconds. Or a lifeguard. Holy shit.”

They’re leaning against the outside wall of the cottage now, side by side. Richie turns to her in excitement, grabbing her arm; he completely forgets that he’s not actually _out_ to Bev, but he also says dumb gay shit all the time, so it’s not that out of the ordinary. 

“A lifeguard,” he whispers, eyes wide. “Please fantasize about this with me. I would pretend to drown so I can get mouth-to-mouth.” 

Bev laughs. “Should I feel weird about you constantly hitting on my boyfriend?” 

Richie almost says, on impulse, _Nah, I’m not a home-wrecker_ , until he… realizes. With that sobering thought, things grow quiet for a second. Richie finally says, “Boyfriend. I like hearing you say that, it’s nice.” 

“Yeah.” Bev smiles. “I like saying it.” She’s quiet for a while, letting her cigarette dangle from her fingers, smoldering, arms folded with grace. Her smile gradually fades. “Can I tell you something, Richie?”

Richie’s heart thuds in his chest. For a person keeping a few secrets, that’s never a good thing to hear. “Sure?” 

“So, I feel kinda bad being around Bill and Audra tonight because… when we were in Derry, he kissed me.”

Richie processes for a moment while Bev watches his face, nervous smile. 

“When? Like…” Richie blinks. “When did you have time for this?”

It doesn’t seem to be the question she’s expecting or wants to answer. She throws him a quick explanation—“I dunno, it was… at the Townhouse, before Eddie got stabbed by Bowers.”—before moving on. “Anyway… It was just a kiss, but… do you think he told her? Probably, right? I mean, if he told her everything about It.” She laughs and takes another drag of her cigarette. “I feel bad not acknowledging it, like obviously they’re fine now, but… Still. It wasn’t _nothing_.” 

Richie thinks for a moment that Bev would appreciate the irony. For that alone, he sort of, almost wants to tell her. But he doesn’t. And the temptation evaporates completely because before he can respond, the back door bangs open. Eddie crashes their party, stumbling across the lawn. He hasn’t been using his cane for most of the party, and he’s been doing pretty well despite all the drinking; this is the first time Richie worries about him. 

“Richie, there you are!” he calls out, and in a few more steps he lands on the wall next to Richie. His arm loops around Richie’s waist as he settles in.

“Yeah, buddy, here I am.” Richie slings his own arm around Eddie’s shoulder and adjusts his stance so they’re not pressed together too closely.

Eddie says, “It’s almost midnight.”

“Shit, I better finish this,” Bev says about her cigarette and she gets to work. 

“You and I are bunking together,” Eddie says to Richie, his voice pitched too low. “Upstairs in the main house. We got twin beds.”

Then he plucks Richie’s cigarette from his lips and takes a drag. 

Richie can feel Bev’s eyebrows shoot up as clearly as if they were on his own forehead. “Wow, Eddie. What has Richie’s influence done to you?”

They both laugh, but Richie shifts away from him until they’re no longer touching.

Mike leads them through a chaotic countdown, but they get the timing off and the date on his phone clicks over when they’re only on 6. They make up for the imprecision with a ton of enthusiasm—and a lot of champagne. Richie spends the first hour of 2017 trying to fend off Eddie’s hands for fear of them being too obvious. They end up sitting around on the sectional again, passing a couple bottles of champagne around and maintaining a barely coherent conversation. Eddie slumps against Richie’s shoulder and his fingers pick at the seam of Richie’s jeans, on the outside of his thigh. Richie stays very still, and no one comments on it or even gives them a second glance but, looking around the room, it’s clear that their body language is similar to the three other couples, sitting close together, casual contact. 

Richie wishes for a selfish moment that he could have this in a normal way. That Eddie’s wife and family didn’t exist. That he could put his arm around him, in front of their friends, and hold him close. He also wishes that he didn’t want any of that. He wishes that he wasn’t such a glutton for self-sabotage and punishment. 

It’s shortly after 1 when Ben and Bev venture across the lawn to the cottage, along with Mike who’ll be staying in the second bedroom there. Bill and Audra take the ground floor bedroom. Richie and Eddie head upstairs, along with Stan and Patty, and take the bedroom with twin single beds. When Eddie comes back from the bathroom after brushing his teeth, Richie is sitting on the edge of one of the beds. Eddie closes the door behind him and strides over to Richie, messes up his hair, and kisses him. 

From there, it escalates quickly. Eddie puts one knee on the bed, then the other so he’s fully in Richie’s lap. Richie leans backward until he’s laying down on the mattress, and Eddie follows him down. And then Richie flips them so he’s on top. 

They’re drunk and everything feels magnified and dizzying, grabbing and gasping. “Finally got you into a real bed,” Richie says, already panting. “My back wouldn’t have held out much longer.” He breathes Eddie in, nestling into the crook of his neck. There’s his scent, the bit of sweat-salt, that is fast becoming familiar. And a hint of something else, something deep and spicy. “Is that your new cologne?” he murmurs. “I like it.” 

“Thanks, I’ll tell Myra,” Eddie says. 

Richie laughs. “You better not.”

They get all of their clothes off, too, for the first time. Including socks; Richie makes a point to pull Eddie’s off for him. It’s dark in the bedroom, but their eyes adjust. The bed is unfortunately creaky, groaning when they move too abruptly, so they shush each other. They’re both unfocused and sloppy, but Richie wouldn’t have it any other way. He goes down on Eddie for all of thirty seconds, pinning his hips to the mattress, before Eddie tugs on his shoulders to pull Richie back to his level. Richie goes easily, content to kiss his face and slide against him. 

And Eddie, arms draped over Richie’s back, says, “I love you. So much.” 

For Richie, the floodgates open. “I love you,” he whispers against the shell of Eddie’s ear. “I love you,” he gasps into his mouth. “I love you,” he says to the skin of his neck. 

By two o’clock, they fall asleep in the tiny bed, under sweaty sheets, Richie folded around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, plotting out this chapter: realistically, richie should move out once he and eddie start sleeping together. but… I already have all these ideas for hot scenes of them sneaking around and if richie has a hotel room or his own place, they would just go there. 
> 
> my friend: follow your heart. fuck realism.
> 
> me: you’re so right. car sex here we come.


	4. Chapter 4

On New Year’s Day, Eddie wakes to a bright room and sticky eyelids. Richie is a furnace at his back, an arm slung around Eddie’s waist and their legs tangled up. Eddie is definitely hungover—his dry mouth tastes terrible and the sharp pain of a headache splinters behind his eyes—so it takes him a second to realize what woke him. 

What woke him was: he heard the bedroom door open as someone said, “Rise and shine.” 

He looks up to make immediate eye contact with Stan, standing in the doorway, his own eyes wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses. 

_Fuck_. 

Eddie stays perfectly still, not so much as blinking or breathing. Richie shifts behind Eddie, his naked arm sliding up Eddie’s chest—then he freezes, too, apparently awake enough to realize what’s going on. 

Stan says, “Shit, sorry,” and closes the door. Eddie hears his feet on the steps, making a quick escape. 

“Fuck,” Eddie says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh, fuck me. _Fuck_ me.” 

Richie mutters, “I think that’s what got us into this mess.” 

“This is not funny, Richie!” Eddie snaps, shrugging Richie’s arm off him.

“I know, sorry.”

They’re way too close in the tiny single bed, and still completely naked. Figures Eddie doesn’t get to enjoy his first morning waking up next to Richie; he doesn’t deserve that, anyway. Eddie crosses his arms over his eyes, blocking out the world for a few more precious minutes. 

While Eddie silently wallows, Richie gets up—the bed creaks, deafeningly loud—and he picks up their clothes from the floor and from where they’re tangled with the bedsheets. He gets dressed, and tosses Eddie’s clothes onto the bed, landing with a soft _thump_ over his covered legs. 

Then Richie says, “You know, it’s not a long drop.” 

Eddie parts his arms to peer out at Richie. He’s facing the second story window; he grins back at Eddie. 

“Wanna make a run for it?” 

Eddie smiles reluctantly. Then he hauls himself up and gets dressed enough to go to the bathroom. He takes a long shower, resting his head against the wall and keeping his eyes shut to ward off the queasiness in his stomach. If there was any aspect of his affair with Richie—his nausea flares at the word—that still felt surreal, detached from reality because it existed in a cozy bubble between the two of them, well. The bubble is effectively burst now. 

After he showers and dresses, he leaves the bathroom and crosses paths with Richie in the hallway, clutching his own change of clothes to his chest. 

“Are you going down there?” Richie asks him in a low voice.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna–” Eddie shakes out his shoulders, “Just gonna act normal. Stan wouldn’t tell anyone. We can talk to him later.” 

Richie frowns. He’s standing far too close to Eddie, so Eddie takes a step back. Eyes shifting nervously, Richie asks, “Do we have to talk to him? Can’t we all, like, pretend that never happened? I’m sure Stan is just as happy about it as we are.” 

“No, we have to say something. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.” Eddie almost believes it. He reaches up to pat Richie’s cheek and turns to leave him. 

Pretending to be brave for Richie makes him feel slightly more brave, so Eddie walks into the kitchen with his head held high. There, the rest of the Losers are gathered for some hangover-alleviating breakfast and coffee. The others greet Eddie with muted enthusiasm as he slides onto a stool at the kitchen island. He makes eye contact with Stan as the other man takes a sip of coffee. They both look away. 

“Hey.” Bev taps the counter in front of Eddie and he glances up to her, startled. “How’d you sleep? I asked you like three times.” 

“He hasn’t had coffee yet,” Bill interjects. “Give him a break.”

Eddie smiles, tight and controlled. “I slept fine.” Mike presents him with a full mug of coffee and he mutters his thanks. 

“Richie still sleeping?” Ben asks. 

“No, he’s–” Eddie scratches the side of his face and very pointedly avoids looking at Stan, “He’s in the shower now.” 

There’s some pleasant if subdued chatter about New Year’s resolutions as everyone eats and rehydrates. Mike wants to continue his travels to every state in the continental U.S., and, as he sheepishly adds, he wants to start dating again. Evidently it’s been a while. (“A different lady for every state,” Ben says conspiratorially and the comment shocks Bev to laughter.) Bill says he’s going to try giving up caffeine again and Audra points out that he says that every year and furthermore, isn’t he drinking coffee right now? 

“Well,” Bill says, taking another sip. “Better luck next year, then.” 

When they prompt Eddie to reply he says, “I’m just gonna take this year one day at a time,” and everyone nods solemnly. 

Then Richie comes rambling down the stairs and into the kitchen. He throws a quick look at Eddie then Stan, before settling in at the counter beside Bev and Ben. 

“New Year’s resolution, Rich,” Ben greets him. “What is it?” 

“Uh,” Richie stalls. “Get a job?” 

There’s a round of laughter, Richie chuckling along with them. Then Bill suggests, “Move back to L.A.” 

“Maybe,” Richie concedes.

They spend the rest of the morning in Southampton, milling around the narrow streets and tiny storefronts. Drinking foamy lattes and wandering through art galleries with big windows and shiny hardwood floors. It’s objectively a nice way to spend the morning—and bougey as fuck—but Eddie can’t relax enough to enjoy himself. He follows the group around, mind racing and exchanging terse glances with Richie. 

“We should–” Eddie starts, grabbing Richie’s elbow when they fall behind the group.

“When?” Richie hisses back.

“I don’t know!” 

They get their chance when the group starts to splinter. Stan lingers in an antique shop, examining some crystal punch bowl, while Patty returns to the street. So Richie and Eddie take the opportunity to corner him, shoving each other toward him like two poorly coordinated con artists approaching their mark. 

“Hey,” Richie starts awkwardly. 

Stan looks up at the two of them, then over his shoulder. He turns back, sighing. “Hey. Why do I feel like I’m about to be blackmailed?”

Richie starts, “Dude, we don’t have _shit_ on you–”

Eddie puts his hand to his stomach to stop him talking; the gesture feels too familiar and intimate, but he figures they’re far past the point of subtlety. “So obviously that was not something that we wanted you, or anyone, to see. Not yet.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Richie react; he looks sharply to him in a way that clearly says, ‘Not _yet?_ ’ 

Eddie tries to ignore him. “And I understand that it’s really–”

Stan interrupts, “So this is an ongoing thing?” 

“Yeah, for, uh…” Eddie tries to look to Richie to consult but he’s staring resolutely at the floor. “For a few weeks, yeah. I know it’s… bad. I don’t mean to make any excuses. But I’m in a tough spot. I just realized that I’m gay and we’re– we’re in love–” Richie jolts again and Eddie powers through, “And I’m going to find a way to work this out for everyone, I just need… time.” 

Eddie glances around the antique shop, too late to double-check for eavesdroppers, but they’re alone. Maybe the cashier heard him, or one of the three long-haired cats that roam the store, but so the fuck what. 

Stan finally says, “Okay. I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s not really any of my business.” 

Eddie’s shoulders slump. “Thank you. Thank you, I’m so sorry–” 

Stan stops him. “You’re both adults, right? And the last thing I want is… any part in this.” He gestures in a circle between the three of them. 

Eddie nods hurriedly. “Understood.” 

Stan turns to leave, but he pauses to say, “If I can… Eddie, I don’t think it’s a realistic goal to work this out ‘for everyone.’ I think you need to start considering what kind of collateral damage there’s going to be, and who you’re willing and unwilling to hurt.” And then he continues, weaving through the crowded shelves, toward the exit. 

Eddie scoffs, his face heating. “Thought it was none of your business,” he mutters, just loud enough for Stan to hear. But he doesn’t say anything. The bell above the door dings when he shoves it open. 

Eddie turns to Richie, running a comforting hand up and down his arm, and looking imploringly at his face. His eyes are distant, jaw tight. “It’s okay, yeah?” Eddie says softly. “No problem.” 

“Yeah.” Richie swipes a finger through some dust on the nearest shelf and frowns at it. “Did you mean that? That you’re gay? ‘Cause when I asked you, you said…” 

Eddie blinks, straightens. “Uh, sure. Yeah.” 

“Or did you just say that to seem more sympathetic to Stan?” 

“I don’t think that–” 

“Because if you’re gay then it’s just, like, tragic, right?” 

Eddie stares back at him and realizes that Richie isn’t anxious, he’s angry. It feels like he stepped on broken glass a minute ago and just now realized he’s bleeding. “I’m figuring it out, okay?” Eddie says. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t use this against me.” 

“And, and–” Richie steps closer to him, his eyes going a bit wild behind his glasses. “You said we’re in love, like, we _just_ said that to each other for the first time, uh, less than twelve fucking hours ago? What the fuck was that about?” 

“I’m sorry, okay?” Eddie says without much sincerity. “It’s true, isn’t it? I’m sorry for trying to fucking keep my head above water here.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says bitterly, “You’re the only one who’s drowning, Eddie.” 

Eddie snaps his mouth shut and looks at him, with regret. “Can we not talk about this in a fucking antique store?” 

“Sure. Whatever.” Richie gestures abruptly toward the door. “After you.”

Everyone flies out later that afternoon, so between Mike’s car and Richie’s car, they travel to the airport. There are a lot of hugs and long, drawn-out goodbyes; “We’ll be back in the summer,” Bev promises, hugging Eddie with her chin tucked over his shoulder. “Take care of yourself.” 

It’s no easier to look Stan in the eye, but Eddie and Richie both hug him, muttering goodbyes. “Be in touch,” Stan says quietly to Eddie, patting his back as he pulls away. 

“Where you off to next, Mikey?” Bill asks through an enthusiastic hug. “Or should we call you Jack Kerouac because you’re–”

“Because I’m _On the Road_ , yeah, funny,” Mike says through a smile. “Well. Never been to Niagara Falls.” 

While they drive back home from LaGuardia, Eddie lets things simmer for fifteen minutes or so, mentally rehearsing. The past twenty-four hours were intense, and seemed to shift things between them in a way that can’t be reversed; and he hates the feeling of Richie stewing in silence beside him. He hates not knowing where they stand or what Richie is thinking. But if they’ve made it this far, they can get past mutual love declarations followed by a friend catching them having an affair, right? All they ever do is have excruciating talks about the state of their relationship, so what’s one more? 

Finally Eddie clears his throat and says, “Can we talk about it now?” 

Richie, sitting behind the wheel, sighs heavily. “I guess.” 

“I’m, uh–” Eddie grits his teeth. ( _Come on, be a big man, fucking apologize, you coward_.) “I’m sorry about the way I handled that. I was too focused on my own situation and didn’t think about how it would make you feel.”

Eddie swallows and looks over at Richie, who’s staring straight ahead at the road. 

Richie’s jaw clicks. He adjusts his hands on the steering wheel, glances in the rearview mirror. Then he says, “You know, thanks, but I’m not even really mad.” He sounds exhausted. “I just– I don’t know. It sucks that our friend had to find out this way, you know? It sucks that we can’t tell anyone. It just sucks. I feel fucking awful, like… _most_ of the time. Except when I’m alone with you, so that’s a really cool vicious cycle. But I feel like it’s starting to creep into that, too.” 

Eddie is quiet. It sounds a lot like Richie is saying ‘this isn’t working’ and the thought makes him panic. Because it’s true, but it’s the kind of truth he can’t look at directly for too long. 

Then Richie caves. “Sorry, sorry, I’m just hungover and, like… sad. Ignore me. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m not mad, promise.” He flashes a smile at Eddie before returning his eyes to the road. 

—

Early the next week, Richie stands in a loft in Brooklyn with a leasing agent. The place is currently occupied; there's a cat that keeps rubbing against Richie’s shins, meowing. The apartment has rustic, industrial features, because of course it does: exposed brick and worn beams, dark-paned windows that look out directly into the apartment building across the street. 

“I think this place is too cool for me,” Richie comments to the humorless, clipboard-wielding agent. Then he says, “So the fifteenth?” 

“Yes, the fifteenth,” she answers. “You should act quickly, there are–”

Richie’s phone buzzes in his jeans pocket. He pulls it out to see Christian’s name. “Yeah, yeah, act quickly, there are lots of other people looking at it, this isn’t my first rodeo. Sorry, I gotta take this.” 

He moves into the hallway while he answers the call. The agent locks the door and follows him down the stairs. 

“Hey,” Richie says. “What’s up?”

“You got it, Rich.”

“Got– got what?”

“SNL. You’re hosting. Next Saturday.”

“Holy–” Richie consciously lowers his voice and nods at the agent as he finally bursts out onto the street, into the full mid-morning sun. “Holy fucking shit, really? Next– next fucking Saturday? That’s like–”

“Soon, right?” 

“Yeah, it’s soon.”

“Excited?”

“I guess.” Richie shakes his head and corrects as Christian chuckles, “Yeah, I mean. Yeah, I am.”

“Can you get over there today for lunch? Sit down and talk with some of the writers? What are you doing right now, anyway?” 

Richie stops walking, realizing he was heading in an aimless direction anyway. He steps out of the way on the sidewalk, to stand next to the chained up, rusty remnants of a bicycle. “Uh, sure. Yeah. I can get over there. I’m just in Williamsburg, had an apartment showing.”

“Exciting.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, just as dryly. “Well. Thanks.”

“No, thank _you_ , Rich,” Christian says, as he often does—as if Richie might forget he’s this guy’s source of income—and hangs up. 

Richie looks around the street in a daze for another second, before he gets his bearings and heads off in the right direction.

The meeting goes well. Richie sits on a ratty leather couch, worn to the stuffing in places, in a dark office with a handful of twenty-something writers. They eat shawarma and french fries and it doesn’t take long for Richie to fall into a rhythm, shooting the shit with them. They want to get to know Richie, figure out how to joke about him and where the lines are and how to straddle them. As far as Richie’s concerned, nothing is off-limits. He’ll happily serve himself up on a platter with a garnish of humor.

“The last thing I want,” Richie says, very seriously but still laughing, “Is to wake up the next day to see anyone tweeting about how ‘brave’ I am or some bullshit. I don’t want the audience to fucking applaud me, I just want to keep it to jokes, okay?” 

One of the writers (Nate, he has floppy blond hair and some acne around his mouth) says, “I hear you, but I just wonder if this is going to seem significant to anyone.” 

Richie says, “What, like, no one cares? Or everybody already knows?” He barks a laugh that betrays too many nerves. 

“The former,” Nate says. “You’re not, like, a household name or anything.” 

“Don’t tell my agent that,” Richie says. 

Another writer, Amy, contributes, “I think we lean into the obscurity angle.” She sits crosslegged on another couch across from Richie; her black hair is pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head. "Richie can basically explain who he is in his monologue."

Richie holds a hand to his chest, mocking offense. “This is why I don’t hang out with millennials.” 

By the time Richie is on his way back to Long Island, it’s after four in the afternoon. He calls the leasing agent and she tells him, without remorse, that the Williamsburg loft has been rented. 

“Seriously? It’s been, like, four hours.” 

“It’s a competitive market,” she says. “I have some similar units going up later this week.”

Richie sighs and begins the descent into the subway. “Yeah, fine. Sure.” 

The next week, Richie starts rehearsals and since both he and Eddie are going into Manhattan for work now, they decide to meet up for lunch. They’ve both been busier lately, out of the house more, and it’s good; it helps Richie clear his head, at least. They’ve settled back into their weird status quo, and Eddie seems desperate to leave any tension unacknowledged. But there’s one fact on which Richie can’t help but fixate. 

He’s planning to come out publicly at the end of the week. On live television, he’s going to tell the world that he’s gay. And he’s going to do this while he’s sleeping with a married man. And said married man’s wife is definitely going to see it. And god knows what thoughts might flash through her mind, or what pieces she might put together. 

Richie is starting to think that all of this is a horrible idea, but the train is already in motion. Eddie doesn’t seem concerned; maybe he hasn’t given it much thought. Richie keeps flashing back to what Stan said on New Year’s Day, about ‘collateral damage,’ and how Eddie is clinging to the delusion that everything can work out. If Eddie refuses to see this disaster approaching in slow motion, then Richie needs to be the one to act, right? 

He’s been thinking about it a lot lately; planning how he’s going to cut things off, how he’s going to make Eddie see it’s for the best. Or how he’s going to throw himself on the tracks, if that’s what it takes. But all he’s really been doing is thinking. 

Right now, at lunchtime on a Monday, he’s sitting across from Eddie at a cozy Italian restaurant in the financial district. The place is wall-to-wall suits sitting at tiny white-clothed tables. Eddie has taken the rest of the afternoon in PTO and Richie has a keycard for a room at the Radisson tucked into his wallet.

So maybe his self-sacrificing plans are just an attempt to soothe the cognitive dissonance. Because he has very much not stopped having an affair with a married man, and the clock is ticking. 

Eddie picks at his pungent Caesar salad and asks Richie, “How’s the apartment hunt going?”

Richie frowns. With this, like everything, he’s been dragging his feet. “Fine. I mean. Everything gets snapped up so quickly. I guess I shouldn’t be picky.”

“Nah, you can afford to be picky,” Eddie tells him. He chews a crouton. “And you deserve to find the place of your dreams.”

Richie grins. “Are you saying this because you want to have a nice place to stay when you go on weekend ‘business trips’?” 

Eddie tilts his head and considers, like the oldest trick in the affair book is just now occurring to him. Then he asks, “Are you ever gonna sell your place in L.A.?” 

“Are you my financial advisor? What’s with the interrogation?”

“I think you should keep it,” Eddie says. “If you can afford to. Why not?”

“Yeah, why not,” Richie echoes, but there’s something about the conversation that leaves a lump building in his throat. 

After lunch, they walk the few blocks to the hotel. On the way, Eddie asks a litany of questions about the SNL appearance—who he's working with, who he’s met so far, is he going to do one of those musical numbers or something?—and Richie gives him short, distracted answers. When they step into the fifth floor single room and kick off their shoes, Eddie laughs and says, “You don’t seem very excited about this career opportunity.” He shrugs off his dark wool coat and tosses it over the chair in the corner. 

“Yeah, I dunno, I’ve just been stressed.” Richie sets the keycard on the vanity and looks at Eddie. He’s backlit by the full afternoon sun streaming in through sheer curtains. Richie almost can’t look directly at him. 

“I have an idea for that,” Eddie says, stepping in close. He wraps his arms around Richie’s waist. 

“Hm.” Richie rests his forehead against Eddie’s. “What would that be?” 

Eddie kisses him.

Things stall a little when they move from the point of making out on top of the hotel bedspread to Richie digging into his coat pocket for supplies. They’re both stripped down to their underwear and socks at this point, lying beside each other on the king-sized bed. A couple condoms and a small bottle of lube lie between them. 

“Okay so,” Eddie says to break the silence. “You’re the expert.”

Richie’s face lights up, and Eddie groans and immediately backtracks: “I mean– you’ve done this before– I swear to god, Richie.” 

Richie leans over him, pinning him flat to the bed and grinning like a wolf. “The expert. I’m the expert at sex. The sexpert, if you will. That’s what you said.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You can be my apprentice. Do you want me to show you my ways?” 

“I _want_ you to show me how to prep you so I can fuck you.” 

The smile drops from Richie’s face. Because for all his fronting, it’s not difficult to get Richie flustered. And Eddie is really talented at flustering him; the bastard probably enjoys it, too. 

“Okay,” Richie says, dumb and slow, sitting back on his heels. 

Richie gets out of his briefs and straddles Eddie’s hips so he can rock on his fingers, working himself open. He bites his lip in concentration, face flushed. Eddie slides his fingers in and out and watches him, eyes dark and flashing. Richie’s dick bobs between his legs. 

Eddie gives him a few quick thrusts, up to his knuckles, and says, “You can be as loud as you want this time.” 

Richie may as well have been doused in gasoline and lit on fire, but he manages to joke back, “And earn a lifetime ban from the Radisson? Be careful what you wish for.” 

Eddie reaches his other hand to tug his cock, and Richie’s breath hitches. His hips stutter and still. Eddie’s hand feels hot, dry and rough against his skin. 

Richie says, “Might wanna hold off on that for a little while.” Eddie nods and immediately withdraws his hand, returns it to his thigh. 

In another few minutes, Eddie shimmies out of his underwear and rolls on a condom. Richie slicks him down and positions himself before sinking down, purposefully slow. They both hold the base of Eddie’s dick with one hand, as if it takes that much coordination. As if they’re landing a helicopter or something. Richie pauses once the head of Eddie’s dick pops past the ring of muscle. Eddie grips his thighs, fingers pressing indents. 

“It’s been–” Richie huffs. “Been a minute. Since I’ve done this.” 

“You good?” 

“Yeah, I’m great. Are you good?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Eddie answers, with too much enthusiasm. 

Richie laughs. “If you’re impressed by this just you wait until I’m–” He sinks down further and his breath leaves him in a rush. “Until I’m…”

Eddie jerks his hips up another inch. “Until you’re what, Richie?” 

“Until I’m bouncing on your dick.”

“Okay, I’m waiting.” Eddie grins and runs his hands up his thighs to thumb at Richie’s hipbones. 

When it comes down to it, Richie makes good on his word. Eddie shifts up to sit half-reclined against the pillows, and Richie uses the headboard for leverage, working his thighs. But Richie stays mostly quiet until Eddie grabs his hips to coax him to switch positions. 

Facedown on the mattress, Richie is all whines and heavy breathing. Eddie curls into the space between his shoulder blades, and their skin slaps, and he whispers, voice low and intense, “God, Richie, you feel so fucking good. Fuck, yeah. Why don’t we do this every fucking day?” 

After, limbs tangled together and resting with his head on Eddie’s outstretched arm, Richie wonders vaguely if Eddie is comfortable, half-beneath him. Is his arm falling asleep? Probably, right? He’s about to ask, but then Eddie shifts to draw him closer. Richie settles in against his chest, hand splayed over his flat abdomen; Eddie rests his hand on Richie’s forearm, running his thumb along the bone. 

Richie sighs and tries to remember the last time he felt _content_. Content like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else, anyone else. Content like the past and the future don’t exist, and it wouldn’t matter if they did. Then he realizes that that train of thought can only depress him, so he opens his mouth to make some banal small talk. “You know what I’m realizing this week?” 

He feels Eddie’s voice rumble in his chest as well as he can hear it: “Hmm?”

“I don’t like working in New York,” Richie confesses. “I don’t like taking the fucking subway. Sorry. Does that make me an elitist prick? Maybe. I miss L.A. though. Driving everywhere is great. It’s the fucking best. I can talk to myself in my car. When you talk to yourself on the train or walking down the sidewalk everyone thinks you’re crazy. And I don’t know if you’ve fucking noticed, but it’s cold here. I hate dressing for the elements. I don’t do it! I wear the same thing every day. Because you can do that in L.A.! It’s TV show rules. I have one outfit, it’s my outfit. It never rains. Fucking paradise.”

After a beat, Eddie asks, “Do you want to go back home?”

Richie falters. He can’t see Eddie’s face without craning his neck and he doesn’t dare move. “Well, no, man, I mean. I’m making this… life in New York… I was just. Never mind.”

Eddie is quiet for another long moment. He’s stopped rubbing his thumb against Richie’s forearm, now his hand just sits there, a heavy weight. “What are we doing, man? This isn’t fucking fair to you.” 

Richie sits up and away from him, turning to look him in the eye. “Eddie–” 

Eddie sits up too, hauling himself up to rest against the headboard. He says, “I’m sorry, I’m so selfish– trapping you in this situation, and I’m a fucking mess–” 

“No, no, you’re not selfish,” Richie insists. His hand is on Eddie’s knee; he squeezes. “You’re not a mess. It’s okay, I understand. It’s a small sacrifice to make on my part. Like, I don’t envy your position, you’ve got… uh. Well. A lot going on.” 

Eddie asks, so sad and sincere, “But what do _you_ want, Richie?” 

“I just–” Richie’s eyes burn and he sniffs harshly. God he _really_ doesn’t want to cry. “I just want _you_ , man.” 

After a moment, Eddie says, very quietly, “But you can’t have _just_ me.” He has tears in his eyes, too. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it’s not easy.” 

“I don’t want it to be easy. Obviously I don’t care about easy.” Richie gestures around them, his motion abrupt and angry, as if the hotel room says everything he can’t put into words. Before Eddie can reply, Richie turns away to reach for his phone on the bedside table. “Shit, I have to– to get cleaned up.”

He retreats to the bathroom, collecting his clothes from the floor. 

When Richie gets out of the shower, there’s a tap at the slightly ajar door. Eddie steps inside, a flesh-colored blur to a glasses-less Richie. He moves closer to Richie, standing at the sink, until he comes into focus. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, wearing his trademark sad smile again. He holds Richie’s arm above the elbow, a light squeeze. “I’m gonna get cleaned up, too, but… I wanna say that I know things have been intense lately. But once you get your own place… I think that will really help, okay?”

Richie nods and lets Eddie lean in to give him a kiss. Then Eddie sets his small toiletry bag on the bathroom counter and gets into the shower.

Richie gets dressed in front of the fogged-up mirror, letting the steam clear his sinuses. He’ll have to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening with the SNL writing team, ahead of rehearsals and pre-recording later in the week. It’s a daunting task and now that he’s facing it, he wishes he could curl up in bed with Eddie and stay in their warm cocoon for a few more hours. 

And, Richie realizes, he forgot to bring his own toiletries. “Fuck, hey, dude, did you bring deodorant?” 

“Yeah, help yourself,” Eddie calls from behind the shower curtain, surprisingly generous. Not giving Richie any shit for forgetting to pack his own. Not getting weird about sharing armpit germs or whatever, which would be rich considering the circumstances, but still. 

It’s nice. It makes Richie’s heart swell a little, fond and sad. 

He unzips the black toiletry bag and finds the half-size travel deodorant. He lifts his shirt to stripe it on. Then when he returns it, he spots a tiny rectangular glass bottle. After a cursory glance over his shoulder, Richie spritzes the front of his shirt with Eddie’s cologne, so that the warm familiar smell might buoy him through the rest of his long day. 

And the day is long. Long but fun. Richie finds it exhilarating to return to doing the things he’s good at. It feels like the best parts of working with his old writing team, without the big lie-by-omission that propped up the whole operation. Richie enjoys collaboration; he’s never really aspired to be a loner comedian. Stand-up is fun for the crowd, and he likes performing, but the writing aspect, by himself—never much appealed to him. So he outsourced it. 

Maybe Richie is too old for the ‘what I want to do when I grow up’ realization, but he’s not too old to switch tracks. He wants less of sweating under bright lights, alone on stage, and more of this: sitting around a conference table littered with Diet Coke cans and MacBooks and making one another laugh. 

It hardly feels like working. But by the end of the night, they assure him that they’re well on their way to Saturday’s show. 

When Richie gets home, it’s before 11. He unlocks the front door and steps inside, wincing as the hinges protest, the sound reverberating in the quiet house. He kicks off his shoes then arranges them more neatly on the mat. Then he follows the light of the hallway into the dark kitchen to find–

Myra, still awake, and leaning against the kitchen counter. She’s eating from a bag of chocolate chips; she smiles guiltily at having been caught. “How was rehearsal?”

“Good.” Richie leans against the counter opposite. “You have the right idea here,” he says, nodding to her snack. She offers the bag and pours a handful of dark chocolate morsels into his open palm. 

“Did you meet– um.” Myra fumbles through a few vague descriptions of different SNL cast members. 

Richie smiles and answers: _Yes, I met her. No, I didn’t meet him yet_.

Then he says, “‘Scuse me,” and moves to get a glass from the cabinet behind her. 

She’s slow to move out of the way and they pass more closely than Richie intended. They both mutter an apology, turning away from each other. 

Then, while Richie fills up his glass at the fridge, she asks, “Is that… Is that the same cologne as Eddie’s?”

Richie freezes, ears rushing. He turns away from the fridge and takes a long, level sip of water. It’s cold enough to leave his teeth aching. Then, in a performative gesture, he lifts up his shirt to sniff. He shrugs, eyebrows furrowed. “Uh? Maybe, I dunno. I feel like they all smell the same, you know?” 

Myra nods slowly, arms crossed. “Yeah. Yeah. That’s true.” It’s hard to read her face in the dark kitchen, illuminated only by the green glow from the digital displays of several appliances. 

“Well, I’m beat,” Richie announces, lame and far too loud, and he turns to retreat to his room. His pulse pounds in his head; he resists the urge to take a detour to the bathroom to puke up his nerves in the sink. 

In the morning, Richie wakes up and stays in bed until he’s sure Myra has left to take the kids to school. Then he rushes into the shower and out of it, eager to be long gone before she returns. 

His rational brain keeps telling him: It’s nothing to be worried about. Eddie went home long before he did last night. They’ve covered their tracks, sort of. It was probably an innocent question. 

His emotional brain keeps telling him: She knows and she’s known the entire time. She wouldn’t have brought up the cologne if she wasn’t already suspicious. They’ve been shamelessly obvious, and Richie is a piece of shit who deserves what’s coming to him. 

Richie is waiting on the train platform when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He startles—he startles easily these days—and grabs it out to find a notification from the Losers group chat. Bill has sent a photo. 

Squinting down at his phone in the bright winter day, Richie opens the message to see a screenshot of some tabloid article. 

The headline reads: _RICHIE TOZIER TO HOST S.N.L._ Below that there’s a photo of Richie and Eddie at the Italian restaurant yesterday. The photo is grainy and poorly lit, cell phone quality. Richie’s face is seen more clearly than Eddie’s. Richie leans over the table toward him, mouth open in mid-conversation. The caption reads: _Tozier and friend get lunch in Manhattan._

The article, from what Richie can see before the screenshot cuts off, begins: _The comedian is hosting Saturday Night Live this week after a long hiatus…_

Bill accompanied the photo with some laughing emojis and: _“Tozier and friend”_

Richie watches as a couple of the Losers begin typing, finding an endless reservoir of humor in that caption. ( _I changed Eddie’s contact name in my phone to “Richie Tozier’s friend”_ quips Ben.) Before Richie can even begin to process, his phone starts buzzing again—he startles again—and the screen lights up with an incoming call from Eddie.

“Hey,” he answers with trepidation. 

Eddie skips the pleasantries. “Why did you take me to lunch yesterday? Didn’t you think about this? Goddamn it, Richie.” 

“Hey, Eddie, just calm down–” 

“Fuck you.” 

Eddie ends the call and Richie stands on the platform, still frozen in confusion. He watches as a couple more jokes roll in from his friends. Stan is conspicuously quiet. 

Then Eddie calls back. Richie answers wordlessly.

“Sorry, sorry,” Eddie says, considerably calmer barely a minute later. “I’m stressed out.” 

The train is arriving now, so Richie turns away from the tracks to let it pass, and plugs his other ear to focus on the conversation. “Look, honestly, I didn’t think anyone cared enough about me to take pictures of me. I am just as blindsided by this as you are. Maybe more!” 

“Just– that was right before we went…” Eddie lowers his voice to hiss into the phone, “Went to the hotel. You know? So if there are pictures of us at lunch…”

“Okay, Eddie, I hear you, but let’s think about this rationally, okay?” Richie says, making firm hand gestures to no one. “If there were more pictures, they’d probably be out there already. I also think it’s worth noting, like– no one’s gonna see this, you know? Except Bill who probably has a google alert for my name or something. It’s an amateur photo somebody snapped with their iPhone, you know, we’re not gonna end up on the cover of fucking Us magazine or whatever. Myra’s not gonna see it while in line at the grocery store. Alright? I know this caught us off-guard and it’s alarming, but I think this is where it ends. And– and– moreover, there’s nothing inherently suspicious about us getting lunch together? Like, whatever, we’re friends. We can get lunch together. That doesn’t mean anything. Even if there’s a photo of us walking into the fucking Radisson together, like, whatever. We can explain it.” 

Eddie pauses for a moment before he says, “Richie, Myra called my office phone yesterday while I was with you, and later, when I got home, she asked me where I was and I told her that I was in meetings all afternoon.” 

“Oh shit.” Richie slumps against the railing. 

“Yeah.” 

“Shit,” Richie says again. “But that’s still, like, the afternoon. Right? You had lunch with me and then you went to your meetings. That makes sense.”

“I guess,” Eddie says. “God. I’m just feeling so fucking stressed out, like my heart is fucking pounding out of my chest. I can’t fucking breathe. _Fuck_.” 

“Hey, hey, Eddie.” Richie straightens up, his own chest seizing in sympathy. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m at the office, I’m in the fucking bathroom, I’m–” 

Richie hasn’t heard him this bad since Derry, when he was still using his inhaler. “Deep breaths. Breathe with me.” He talks Eddie through it. _In: one, two, three. Hold: one, two, three. Out: one, two, three._

When Eddie comes back from the brink, there’s a long moment of silence. Eddie’s breathing is still audible through the phone, but it’s slow and steady now. 

Finally, Richie says, “Eds, this isn’t sustainable.” 

Eddie takes one more deep, long breath. In and out. “Yeah,” he says. “I think you’re right.” 

—

On Tuesday evening, when Eddie gets home from work, Richie is there and, for the second time, he’s packed and ready to go. But this time Eddie doesn’t try to talk him out of it. 

“I’m gonna stay in Manhattan for the rest of the week,” Richie explains, duffel bag slung over his shoulder while he stands in the foyer, Eddie and his family gathered around him. “The commute has been killing me, no offense.”

“And after that?” Myra prompts. Eddie’s not sure how much his paranoia is coloring his perception, but she doesn’t seem too disappointed that Richie is leaving. “Did you ever find an apartment?”

“No, uh.” Richie glances to Eddie then back to Myra. “No, I didn’t. I’m gonna go back home after this.” 

“Oh, okay.” Myra nudges Frank forward. “This is goodbye for a while then.” 

“Yeah, afraid so.” Richie drops to a crouch to hug Frank and Charlie. “I’m gonna miss you guys,” he tells them quietly, and Eddie knows the sentiment is genuine, and not for his or Myra’s benefit. 

“Are you gonna be on TV?” Charlie asks as he stands back up, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I am,” Richie answers, smiling warmly. “Your parents will show you.” 

Then he turns to Eddie and opens his arms to him. His eyebrows are raised, saying wordlessly: _Let’s please be normal. Just for a second._

Eddie hesitates. “Wait. I have something for you.” And he turns to jog down the hallway to the master bedroom. He returns a minute later and offers one of the bottle ships he made two months ago, the one labeled _The Escape from L.A._ in Eddie’s neat, no-frills handwriting. 

Richie stares at the parting gift. “Come on, dude, I don’t want your metaphor. Keep it.”

“It’s not–” Eddie shakes his head and extends his hand farther. “It’s yours, I made it for you.” 

“No, you didn’t,” Richie protests, backing away. “That’s a blatant lie. You made it for yourself and asked me to name it. It’s yours. Keep it.” 

Eddie’s eyes go wide, pointed and pleading. “Richie, dude, come on–” 

“No!” Richie’s voice cracks, a bit too tense. “I just– I don’t want it, okay?” 

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” 

“Why are _you_ making it such a big deal?” 

“Jesus Christ. Fine.” Eddie’s arm falls limp to his side. He’s painfully aware of Myra’s eyes on him, her wordless stare. “Can I walk you out?” 

“No, I’m good,” Richie says, already turning away. “See ya around, Eddie.” 

“Fine. See you.” Eddie holds the door for him and as soon as Richie is outside, he closes and locks it. 

The rest of the week passes. Eddie keeps busy. He recommits to his independent physical therapy that he’s really let slide recently; in the mornings, before he showers, he does his stretches and exercises to strengthen his core. He works; he gets to the office early, and works through his lunch breaks, and stays late. He eats dinner late at home, reheated and in front of the TV, or he calls Myra to tell her he’ll grab dinner out. When he walks from the subway to his office and back again, he imagines running into Richie on the street, but it doesn’t happen. When he sits at his desk, his cell phone facedown beside the keyboard, he imagines it buzzing with a text from Richie, but it doesn’t happen. 

Well, it doesn’t happen until Friday afternoon. 

His phone buzzes and he flips it over too fast, sending it clattering across the desk. Richie has texted the Losers group chat:

_Hey, guys, in my opening monologue tomorrow night I’m gonna come out, so I thought it might be nice to tell y’all first. I’m gay._

It sits for a moment in the technological void, untouched, and Richie starts typing again.

_All the rumors you heard about me back in middle school were true!_

And Richie, apparently unable to help himself, sends one more message:

_I have to be honest. I never actually fucked any of your moms. Your dads, however…_

Eddie would almost like to see how far Richie would take the joke if no one intervened, but, thank god, Bill comes through with a reply: 

_Thanks for telling us, Richie! We love you!_

After that, Eddie watches the outpouring of love and support from Bev and Ben and Mike. Stan’s response is as dry as Eddie would expect: 

_Ok. Good luck with the show. Patty and I will be watching._

Eddie… doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know how to. And within minutes Richie has strong-armed the conversation away from himself and onto a diversionary argument about New York versus Chicago pizza, but Ben isn’t even a fan of deep dish, so it doesn’t work as well as Richie must have hoped. 

Eddie wonders how conspicuous his absence is. It’s obvious, but maybe explainable. They all know that Eddie is closer to Richie than the rest of them. They know that Richie was living with Eddie. The rest of their friends will probably imagine an in-person version of this conversation between Richie and Eddie. So is Eddie expected to reply? Maybe not. Or maybe after work he can send something like: _Just saw this. Good luck with the show, Rich._

In the end, he doesn’t send anything. 

On Saturday night, after a long day of errands with the family that involved a lot of wrestling in and out of car seats and the kids whining in the aisles of different stores, Eddie and Myra are in bed. The flatscreen TV mounted on the wall above the dresser is turned to NBC, playing at a low volume, and it’s almost 11:30. Neither of them usually stay up this late so they’re slumped against their pillows, cradling glasses of white wine, and about to watch a comedy show that they never watch.

Eddie feels ready to jump out of his skin for a couple reasons. He’s so nervous that he might as well be the one about to perform. 

When the show starts, Myra closes her laptop and clicks up the volume a few notches. There’s a long, Trump-centric cold open in which Richie does not make an appearance. It gets a few huffs of laughter out of Myra, but Eddie can hardly pay attention to it. 

After the long opening credits, the announcer booms, _And your host, Richie Tozier!_

Richie jogs out onto the stage, waving to the cheering studio audience. He wears dark jeans and a sport coat over a plain cotton tee. His glasses catch the stage lights as he turns his head, and he seems comfortable up there, smiling broadly. 

Once the audience begins to settle down, Richie says, “So, let me be the first to say: I’m not sure why I’m here.” 

The crowd laughs and he grins and continues, “Whoever let me into this building made a big mistake. Last time I performed on stage, the venue had to refund everyone’s tickets so I’m just saying, I hope NBC has a contingency plan. I might bolt for the door at any second.” He giggles, and rocks up on his toes to elaborate, in a confessional delivered straight to the camera, “To those of you who aren’t getting the joke, pull out your phone and take a second to google me, read the first few headlines that pop up and you’ll get it.” He winks and Eddie’s stomach flips.

Myra chuckles; she’s certainly in on the joke. Eddie is still unable to feel anything other than dread. He takes a long sip of his wine.

“But I don’t want to talk about that,” Richie says. “Is there anything more tedious than a celebrity breakdown story? What a snooze fest. We get it, it’s hard being rich and famous and having unlimited access to coke. No, I wanna talk about after the breakdown. After the dust settles. After your agent drops you. After you get banned from performing at three more casinos.” Richie pauses, and waggles four fingers on each hand, grinning. “I’m up to eight now.”

“Is that true?” Myra asks Eddie, smiling. 

Eddie answers honestly, “I don’t know.” 

“We’ve all been there,” the Richie-on-TV continues gleefully. “What do you do now? Lucky for you, I’m writing a self-help book. That’s what I’m here to promote. Comes out in March. So, I can’t speak to the universality of my advice, but I can tell you what worked for me. Step one, sublease your house in L.A. and drive across the country to the greatest city on earth.”

The crowd erupts in cheers at that and Richie waves his arms to quiet them down. “Come on, really? That’s the cheapest trick in the stand-up book and it’s embarrassing how easy you all are. Get some standards. That’s my role as a comedian, really. I’m that guy you date in your twenties who finally makes you realize that you can do better.” 

Myra laughs quite a bit at this, along with the audience. 

“Step two. Move in with a buddy you haven’t seen since middle school and his wife and kids.” 

Myra turns to Eddie, patting his arm and smiling, as if to say: _That’s you! That’s us!_ As if Eddie might not notice it otherwise. Eddie nods, smiling back, close-lipped. 

Richie continues, “You know, when you’re my age, your friends often say: I didn’t really know who I was until I had kids. It completely changed my perspective on life. I’m not selfish anymore. I have a purpose.” He takes a long pause before he says, “Aren’t those people the worst? You know what my advice is? Skip having kids yourself and just leech off somebody else’s family. You get all the life lessons with none of the college tuition.” 

Eddie barks a laugh for the first time since this started, but he clamps down on it quickly, hand over his mouth. 

“Step three,” Richie says, holding up the corresponding number of fingers. “Get a new agent who’s really good at his job and lands you the hosting gig for Saturday Night Live.” There are a couple whoops from the audience. Richie laughs and says to the camera, hands steepled in front of his chest, “Thanks, Christian.” 

Eddie braces for impact; he knows what must be coming next.

“Step four,” Richie continues. “Use the opening monologue as an opportunity to publicly come out as a gay man, and explain that the brand of comedy you were previously known for was actually a carefully constructed facade.”

The studio audience murmurs for a moment; Richie smiles sheepishly and says, “Step four complete.”

Then someone in the audience starts a round of applause; Richie holds his arms out, trying to quiet them down, and yells over them: “No, no, none of that! We got a great show for you tonight! With musical guest Chance the Rapper! Chance is here! Stick around, we’ll be right back!” 

The camera lingers, swooping over the studio. The audience cheers and the music swells; Richie stands with his hands behind his back, flushed and smiling under the lights and under the applause. 

It clicks over to a commercial; a fake one, one of the sketches. One of the cast members plays a white-robed doctor. Eddie stares desperately at the screen. 

Myra says, “Wait, Richie’s gay?”

Eddie frowns and nods, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

“Did you know before?” Myra asks him. Then she adds, quickly, “It’s fine, obviously, I just had no idea.”

She’s looking at him, holding the remote in her blanket-covered lap. She clicks down the volume a few notches.

Eddie is quiet for a long moment, mouth open and staring back at her. Then he shrugs. “Yeah, me neither. No idea.”

“Oh…” Myra turns back to the TV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was the cold open fyi <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_Gf0mGJfP8>


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To preemptively call myself out: Yes, the “OCs” in this chapter are Caleb Gallo characters. What about it? What do you want to hear? That Ryan the physical therapist is actually Ryan Madison from the first episode of Barry? Because he is!

Heart still racing, but from exhilaration rather than anxiety, Richie leaves the stage, swept along with the flood of cast and crew members. People pat his back and congratulate him on a job well done and he accepts the praise. He continues through the throng, smiling and chatting and promising that yes he’ll go get get drinks with everyone after this, until he reaches his dressing room. The first thing he does is grab his phone off the counter in front of the mirror, where it had been left for the duration of the show. 

He has a lot of messages. 

There’s Christian, of course, telling him that he ‘killed it’ and ‘crushed it.’ And ‘thanks for the shout-out, man.’ There are messages from a dozen or so former colleagues and costars, congratulating him and asking him what he’s been up to lately. Suddenly everyone wants to network; no surprise there. 

And the Losers group chat absolutely blew up, with hundreds of new messages. Richie takes a quick scroll through them—he’ll sit down to read back later, probably tomorrow morning—until he reaches the end. After spending a good hour fondly tearing Richie apart for his sweaty forehead and for reading off the cue cards, the Losers offer some sincere congratulations. 

His eyes catch on the only one he was really looking for.

Eddie: _Great show! Was laughing my ass off at the Californians sketch. Enjoy the after party!_

Richie replies to all of them: _Don’t think you can hide the hours you spent making fun of me under a few compliments. I’m going to back read this tomorrow and decide who my true friends are :(_

As soon as Richie’s reply goes through, he gets another message from Eddie, not in the group chat.

_When are you going home?_

Richie answers, _Flying out tomorrow._

And that’s it. Richie doesn’t say anything else and Eddie doesn’t ask. Richie pockets his phone, takes off his glasses, and plucks a makeup-remover moist towelette from the dispenser by the sink. 

In L.A., Richie moves back into his house. He should have kicked out his tenants a while ago but, for one thing, he forgot that he had tenants. Like, he remembered renting out his house, vaguely, but he didn’t fully realize that this meant his house wasn’t ready and waiting for him as soon as he got back. 

But it’s fine because they’re friends of a friend of a friend—or maybe somebody’s cousin?—so when Richie shows up asking for one of the three bedrooms back, they’re way more chill than they should be. Or maybe that has something to do with Richie offering to halve their rent. 

So Richie has roommates now. Their names are Caleb, Karen and Len, and they’re in their late twenties or early thirties and they’re all actors. Richie can’t quite tell where they are on the aspiring to struggling scale. 

Richie’s car trails him by a day or two, being hauled cross-country on a flat-bed truck, but he has most of his stuff, so he moves back in. The house is in good shape because Richie apparently never canceled the cleaning service. To free up Richie’s room, Caleb and Karen move into a bedroom together, but they’re not dating because, as Richie can tell after about three seconds, Caleb is gay. (Len might be gay, too, but the jury is still out on that one.) They’re all very pretty, in the way that people who flock to the entertainment industry are pretty. Caleb is maybe five-foot-ten, white with dark and well-styled hair. Len is a few inches shorter, Asian, and has distractingly good teeth. Karen is probably five-six with long red hair and cute but sharp facial features. 

His first night home, Richie sits around on the back patio with his three new roommates, feeling like he’s in the pilot episode of a sitcom. They drink cheap beers while Len grills portobello mushroom caps and black bean burgers. The sun has set, early this time of year, and the night is cooling, but it’s still comfortable in a light button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. 

God, Richie did miss L.A. His missed his house. Alone, it always felt big and cold and empty, but it’s filled up in the intervening months. An extra ottoman in the living room; rugs on the hardwood floors; twinkle lights strung up above the patio; chairs and plants on the balcony above the garage. Living alone, Richie hardly found the energy to change burnt-out lightbulbs, let alone give the place some homey touches. 

“You know,” Caleb says, green eyes twinkling, “I think it’s a law that landlords have to give twenty-four hour’s notice before entering the premises.”

“Mm,” Richie hums, skeptical and enjoying the banter. For the first time in months, his chest feels light and bubbly without the crushing weight of reality hanging over his head. “But you invited me in. I don’t think that stands.” 

“What were we supposed to do?” Len calls over his shoulder. The black bean burgers seem charred to a crisp but Richie isn’t about to stop him. “You showed up on our doorstep in an airport taxi with a suitcase.” 

“It was so sad,” Karen says, throwing her head back as if the two-hour-old memory requires that much recall. “You might as well have been soaked from the rain. Standing there with a little hobo pouch on a stick over your shoulder.” 

Richie laughs and jokes that he needs three roommates now, like everyone else in L.A. It’s not true, of course. He can afford his mortgage just fine. But he doesn’t think he would have liked coming home tonight to an empty house. Sitting out here by himself on his dark patio and smoking. Nah. This is much better. 

It’s not late, but soon Richie is loopy-exhausted from the time change and travel and lack of sleep the night before. He spent about an hour catching the three of them up on his life, unable to stop the flood of words. To their credit, they seemed entertained; or they’re smart enough to pretend to be. He told them about his career ups and downs and his sabbatical to live with a friend for a couple months. He talked about Eddie’s kids a lot; he talked about Eddie a lot. He withheld certain details, but the feelings must have come through, as clear as the smile on his face. It was embarrassing how easily it all flowed out and how long he talked, uninterrupted. 

Now his words have run dry; his roommates have moved onto gossip that Richie can’t follow; he interrupts them with a massive, unsteady yawn. 

Len stops what he was saying to glance over to Richie. “Whoa, bed time?”

“Isn’t it, like, two a.m. your time?” Karen asks.

“One a.m.,” Richie corrects. “I’m gonna–” He begins to stand up and everyone wishes him a goodnight. 

Then his phone buzzes, rattling against the patio table. Richie flips it over to see a message from Eddie. 

_Did you make it home alright?_

Richie pecks a reply with his index finger: _Yes._

He sends it. There’s no need to worry Eddie by not replying, but he doesn’t want to open himself up to a conversation. It works; Eddie doesn’t send anything else.

Richie returns to his bedroom on the second floor and collapses into his king-size bed. 

He doesn’t talk to Eddie for a while. 

Well, that’s not strictly true. Eddie talks to _him_. Eddie sends him little updates and questions. It goes on for four or five days. 

_Someone from Charlie’s school just realized who you are. She said was that Richie on SNL?_

_Have you seen Bill yet?_

_It snowed six inches today…_

Richie does not reply. He feels like an asshole for not replying but he would rather chew glass than text about the weather with Eddie. It’s all too raw and he needs some time to reset and every time he sees Eddie’s name pop up on his phone he feels like he’s the one who got skewered through the chest by an alien clown-spider. 

So he focuses on work. Christian is happy to continue representing Richie from a distance—his job is mostly phone calls and emails anyway—and he lines up a couple voice acting gigs like it’s nothing. Well, it’s not much, but it’s not _nothing_. It’s a paycheck. 

Richie only holds out a few days before he alerts Bill that, as per his wishes, he’s back in the City of Angels. By the following weekend, Bill has cleared his schedule and gets the two of them reservations at some sushi place in Long Beach. Audra is unable to join them, and Richie suggests rescheduling for a time when the three of them can meet—he doesn’t want to be the sole focus of Bill’s attention right now—but Bill says they can all get together another time. And that settles it.

“You came last back Sunday?” Bill starts the conversation, once they’re seated with drink orders placed. 

“Yep.” Richie fiddles with the menu but it’s practically illegible to him. Why do they list the types of fish as if that means anything? “Settling in.” 

“I thought you were going to sss-stay in New York,” Bill says, smiling. “When I last saw you, you were really determined.” 

“You talked me out of it, what can I say,” Richie says, his tone dry but a smile pulling at his lips. “You were always so persuasive, Billy.” 

“Bullshit. You’ve never done anything I’ve told you to do.” 

“I can think of a few things…”

Bill doesn’t keep the banter going, which is a shame. Richie was excited to recount the handful of times he’d risked his life doing things Bill told him to do. The smile slowly fades from his face before Bill asks, “Are you and Eddie… I mean, I don’t want to pry…”

Richie shakes his head, feigning nonchalant confusion even as his heart starts thudding. “Are me and Eddie what?” 

“Are you guys okay? I know you two are really close.” 

Richie’s response is a punched-out reflex: “We’re all close.” 

Bill doesn’t fall for it. “Not like you and Eddie. Or- or Ben and Bev–” 

“What the fuck does that mean? Comparing us to–” 

“Whoa, lower your hackles, Rich.” Bill raises his hands, amused. _Amused_ is better than _knowing_ , if Richie had to choose, but he still makes a fist in his lap. “I didn’t mean anything by it. You two are close. You’ve always been a package deal. You were living together for two months, for god’s sake, and now…” Bill takes a pause, sighing. “Look, this didn’t… This didn’t have anything to do with the SNL thing, did it? It’s the only thing we can think of.” 

“We?” Richie echoes immediately. “Who’s we? Do you guys all get together and talk about me–?” 

“Me and Mike, me and Mike,” Bill clarifies, laughing. “We still have our weekly phone calls and sometimes we run out of more interesting stuff to talk about so we have to talk about you, okay? Jesus, you are so on-edge right now.”

Richie takes a well-timed pause as their drinks arrive. He takes a sip and white-knuckles his glass. Bill waves off the waiter, assuring him that they’re not ready to order dinner yet. 

Then Richie says, “Well, we are okay. Thanks for asking.” 

Bill doesn’t look convinced but he does look understanding. 

“And it had nothing to do with me coming out, okay? Jesus Christ.” Richie rubs his eyes under his glasses. “Eddie already knew. I told him a while ago.” 

“Okay,” Bill says quietly. 

“It’s a career thing,” Richie insists. “That’s why I moved back. Like I said, you were right.” 

Bill leans forward. “What’d you say?” 

“You were–” Richie stops. “You son of a bitch.”

Bill is laughing. “Just wanted to hear it again. I know it’ll be the last time.” 

They order dinner and talk about other things. Bill is one of those people who can’t turn it off though, and Richie establishes a rule that every time Bill mentions work he gets to take a sip of Bill’s drink. It’s not long before he has a nice buzz going. 

By the time they’re wrapping up their meal, Richie is just on the far side of tipsy and daring Bill to eat all of the unused wasabi with him. 

So when someone stops by their table and says his name he doesn’t hear it right away.

“Oh, god, that really clears the sinuses,” Richie wheezes after another dollop of the green stuff. “Like a… cattle prod straight to the brain.” 

“Richie? Excuse me.”

Richie turns, eyes watering and nose burning, to see–

Steve Covall, his ex-manager. Standing beside the table, in his crisp, tucked-in shirt with his jacket folded over his arm. Flanking Steve is one of his other clients, a guy Richie vaguely remembers crossing paths with a year or two ago. 

Richie immediately starts coughing. Hard enough that he doubles over.

“Jesus,” Steve mutters. 

Richie sits up and reaches for his water—Bill’s water, maybe—and takes a chug. He wipes his mouth, and savors the remaining few seconds before the embarrassment kicks in. “Sorry. Hi.” 

“Hi,” Steve says flatly. Then he turns to Bill and offers his hand. “Steve Covall.” 

Richie plays catch-up. “My friend, Bill. This is Steve. He used to represent me.” 

“Who’s your agent now?” Steve asks, all business. 

“Christan Desotto,” Richie answers, unconsciously straightening up in his seat. “He’s New York-based.”

“What agency?”

“Harmin.”

“Is that an agency?”

“Yeah, it’s a fucking agency.”

“Harmin,” Steve repeats, drawing out the two syllables. He pulls out his phone to tap away a quick message, or make a note, or just to be a self-important jackass. “Huh. I’ll look it up. Do they have a website?”

“Yes,” Richie answers through gritted teeth. “They have a website.” 

“Nice to see you, Rich.” Steve turns from him, with a parting pat on Richie’s shoulder. 

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Richie calls after him, his smile practically a snarl. 

As soon as he’s out of earshot, or maybe a tad before, Bill mutters, “What a fucking prick. ‘Do they have a website?’ What an asshole.”

“What are the chances?” Richie laments. “I haven’t even been home two weeks. And where even are we? Fucking Long Beach?”

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Bill asks, paging through a suspicious amount of cash in his wallet. He drops a few twenties on the table.

Richie grins. “Just because you paid for my meal doesn’t mean I’m gonna put out. I would have put out anyway.”

They throw back the rest of their drinks in a few wincing swallows and head for the door, weaving through tables and skirting around the gathering crowd at the bar. 

Then Richie pauses. “Hey, wait a second.”

Bill waits as Richie flags down the hostess. 

“Could I pay for the meal of somebody if they just sat down? If I, like, gave you my credit card now you could swipe it or put it on file or something?” 

Her eyebrows furrow. “Well–”

“Those gentlemen over there.” Richie points out Steve and his client. “Reservation would be under Covall. C-O-V…” He trails off. 

The hostess looks increasingly uncertain. “Sir, I don’t know if I can do that because–”

“What if I left it?” Richie offers, dangling his credit card between his fingers. “I’ll come pick it up when you open tomorrow and everything. I’ll sign the receipt, whatever.” 

She considers; a couple more patrons walk in the door and her distracted eye darts to them, then back to Richie. She takes the credit card. “Sure. Let me take down your phone number.” 

Richie gives it to her; she jots it down on the back of some receipt paper and tapes it to the card. 

When they burst onto the street, Bill is laughing and smacking Richie’s shoulders. “That was some devious shit.” 

“I don’t know about that…” Richie grins. He does feel pretty damn proud of himself. 

As they keep walking, aimlessly down the palm-tree-lined boulevard, Bill loops his arm around Richie’s waist. 

“Uh oh,” Richie snickers, leaning into it. “Newly out comedian Richie Tozier spotted cozying up to Bill Denbrough. To _married_ Bill Den– Wait, wait, you’re seeing me workshop this in real time, lucky you. Serial home-wrecker, Richie Tozier spotted–”

“Serial?” Bill repeats, barking a laugh. “Wreck a lot of homes recently?”

For a moment Richie freezes, his hazy mind sharpening to a point, vision tunneling. Then he lets out a shaky laugh and relaxes, slumping against Bill’s shoulder. “You know it.”

Later that night, Richie stumbles around in his dark bedroom, taking off his pants and muttering to himself and reveling in the warm, fuzzy feeling that hovers over him like a fog. Then he goes to plug in his phone, fumbling with it for a second. When the screen lights up he sees a text from Eddie, sent half an hour ago. Frowning, he reads it. 

_Bill sent me a photo of you at a bar so I guess I know you’re not dead._

The warmth in Richie’s body turns sharper with anger as he messages back: _Not dead yet._

Immediately after it goes through, his phone starts buzzing in his hands with an incoming call from Eddie.

He answers, “Hello?”

“So you’re just gonna cut me out?” Eddie demands. He’s angry but hushed. Richie wonders where he is. It’s, what, well after 2am in New York? Is he in the living room? Maybe sleeping in the guest room? “Richie, you said you loved me. I love _you_. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” 

The words rush from Richie on a single breath, seeming to form on their own: “Yeah, it means a whole fucking lot to me, actually, but it doesn’t mean everything, like, magically works out in the end. Sometimes you love someone so much that you can’t breathe and it just doesn’t work out and it hurts forever and that’s life.”

In the following silence, Richie’s pulse hammers in his head. Finally, Eddie says, “I know that. You think I don’t know that? I like that _you’re_ lecturing _me_ about the realities of life as if I’m the naive one.”

(“Oh, you’d be real fucking surprised, buddy,” Richie mutters under his breath.) 

“I’m just saying– it can work out. I need time to…” 

“Time to what?” Richie asks, his temper flaring. He moves toward his bedroom wall as if with the intention to put a hole in it, but he slows, landing with a weak thump of his fist. “You keep saying that. Time to what? Did you get a divorce lawyer?” 

Eddie says, “Richie,” on a pained sigh. 

“Oh, sorry, was I not supposed to use the d-word?” Richie snaps. “Jesus fucking Christ, man. You keep saying you’re gonna work it out. What’s your plan?” 

“I mean, my kids are… really young right now.” 

“Okay. So.” Richie turns to slump against the wall. “You’re going to wait to divorce your wife until your kids are… in middle school? High school? College?” 

“Frank is five,” Eddie says quietly. “That’s– that’s, what, ten years from now? At least?” 

Richie was prepared for this; he swallows his heart. “Yeah, well. If that’s the kind of time you need.” 

“Richie, I can’t think about that right now…” Eddie sounds wrecked. “And, god, even if it can’t work out between us, Richie, even if it doesn’t– I need you in my life. I know you keep trying to be the bigger person or whatever and do what’s best for me, but seriously, knock it off. I want to talk to you still. It hurts but the alternative would be worse.” 

Richie is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, with a clarity that surprises him for how emotional and drunk he is, “I’m not doing what’s best for you, Eddie. I’m doing what’s best for me, actually. I need space. I need to not talk to you for a while. Like, more than a few days. Probably… a few months. And I need you to respect that.” 

Eddie says, quietly, “Are you serious?” It’s not a challenge as much as a realization. 

“It’s not gonna be forever,” Richie promises. “I just… please. I need some time. I can’t keep picking at this wound, okay?” 

“Okay, I mean.” Eddie sighs, tense and strained. “Obviously I’ll give you what you need, but I don’t– I hope that helps you.” 

It’s a bitter final note and Eddie ends the call. 

Richie stands in his dark room for a while, the light from his phone screen blinding his tired eyes. 

_Call ended.  
Call duration 2:17_

Then he tosses his phone onto his bed and wanders downstairs for some positive attention. At least one of his roommates was home when he burst through the front door maybe fifteen minutes ago. 

Richie doesn’t realize he’s only in his boxer-briefs and a t-shirt until he plops down on the couch next to Caleb and says, “Hey.” 

“Hey,” he says, pocketing his phone. 

“How did your…” Richie waves his hand, trying to generate the words from thin air. “Did you have an audition today?” 

“Yeah, it went okay.” 

“Okay?” 

Caleb confirms, “Okay…” Then, since he’s not conversational dead weight, he asks, “How was your night? Where were you?” 

“Out with a friend,” Richie answers.

Caleb quirks an eyebrow. “A friend, huh?”

“Yeah, an actual friend. My good friend Bill.” Richie pauses, as Caleb’s eyebrows don’t stop dancing, and clarifies, “My _straight_ friend Bill.” 

“You have straight friends?”

“Several.” They both chuckle. Richie throws his feet up on the coffee table and settles back against the cushions. Then Richie, for the first time, realizes he can namedrop some of his friends now. “Actually, you might– you ever heard of William Denbrough, the writer? He writes, like, books.”

Caleb looks at him. “Yeah? I’m familiar with his, like, books.” 

“That’s the Bill. My friend.” Richie grins, turning his face on the cushions.

Caleb blinks, his own smile growing. “Wait, you’re friends with William Denbrough?”

“Yeah. We go way back.” (This is fun. He could have been namedropping Bill for months.)

“I would never have guessed,” Caleb says. “You two have… very different vibes. From what I can tell about him, anyway.”

“That’s an accurate read on the situation,” Richie says.

“Have you worked together or something?”

“No, we grew up together.”

“Oh, holy shit. That’s wild.” Caleb throws his arm over the back of the couch and turns more fully toward Richie. “You two ever go back to give a commencement address or something? Hometown heroes?”

“No way,” Richie scoffs. “Fuck them.”

Caleb laughs. “I feel… similarly about my hometown. But I would still love to go back and rub my success in their faces… theoretically. If I became successful.” 

Richie is quiet for a long moment before he says, “You know my friend Eddie? Who I was living with? I’ve mentioned him.” 

Caleb says, “Yeah, you’ve mentioned him,” with a dose of sarcasm. Try, talked about him for an hour straight. 

“I was talking to him, just now. He called me. It was kind of…” Richie sighs. “Sorry.” 

“No, you can vent,” Caleb says, pulling a knee up on the couch to shift closer to him. “What’s up?” 

“When I was living with him…” Richie pauses then, as a moment of clarity strikes him like a bolt of lightning through fog. Maybe he _shouldn’t_ tell his biggest secret to this guy, who’s a relative stranger. Especially not a secret that could easily get out and hurt Eddie. He switches tracks, and says, “I was really in love with him. That’s why I had to move back here.” 

“Oh, shit. Does he know how you feel?” 

“Um. No, no. He’s married, so.” Richie shrugs. “I’m trying to get some space so I can move on, but he doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t know what he did wrong. And I can’t tell him. So… yeah, it sucks.” He smiles sadly at Caleb and shrugs with one shoulder: _what can you do?_

“That’s shitty. I’m sorry.” Caleb sits quite close to him; one hand loosely massages the meat of Richie’s shoulder, and then the base of his neck.

Richie swallows, suddenly aware of every inch of his own skin. “Caleb.”

He tilts his head. “Hmm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Mm.” The hand slides up the nape of Richie’s neck, fingers twisting in his hair and tugging. 

Richie inhales sharply. “Where’s, uh.” He laughs. “Where’s Karen and Len?”

“They’re not home.”

Then Caleb kisses him. It only lasts a couple seconds of scraping stubble and clicking teeth. Richie gets one hand around his bicep, and this guy is surprisingly jacked for how lean he is; he has a nice tight body that Richie has definitely noticed, and–

Richie turns his face away. “Sorry.”

“It’s all good.” Caleb’s hand sits on Richie’s bare thigh, fingers curled. He slowly withdraws, with a long stroke down to his knee. 

Richie elaborates, “There’s at least, like, three pretty good reasons we shouldn’t do this.”

“Can I hear them?”

Richie wrinkles his nose, laughing. “I feel like you would just try to talk me out of them. And you’re very persuasive and I’m very persuadable right now, so I’m going to say… No. I’m going to bed.”

“Okay.” Caleb sits back against the arm rest as Richie stands up. “Goodnight, Richie.”

“Night.”

Back in his room, Richie falls into bed. He feels a little itchy and worked-up, but not unpleasantly. He hasn’t thought about whether he wants to start dating again or if he’s going to fuck other people any time soon. At the moment, it’s all too painfully raw. So for now, he holds onto the feeling of being wanted by someone else in the abstract, and by an attractive young man in particular. (He makes a mental note to find out exactly how old Caleb is, if only for a more specific ego boost.) There’s a smile on his face as he nestles into his pillows. 

—

As January comes to a close, Eddie works a lot. As much as he used to, before Derry, maybe more. He tries not to think about Richie because it makes him want to punch a wall. When he does think about Richie, which is frequently, he distracts himself with his physical therapy or by going for a drive and blasting the car radio or by whisking off one of his kids for an impromptu field trip, _come on, Charlie, we’re going to the park. Yes, now._

Eddie thinks maybe he wants to try running. He wanted to run track as a kid; he was pretty good at it, too, until his mom found out he made the track team and called the coach to tell him Eddie couldn’t run because of his asthma. A couple other kids on the team had asthma. Real asthma, too, probably. Eddie doesn’t remember if he thought much of it at the time. He thought, sure, he feels fine now, but you never know. It’s easy to get lulled into a false sense of security. His mom knew what was best for him. 

He buys running shoes and he fills his lungs with cold winter air, hoping it will purify him from the inside-out, make him less angry, make him less _wanting_. He’s a bottomless pit. 

It doesn’t really work. 

But it doesn’t _not_ work, either. He’s still full to the brim with exhausting, aimless desire, but he finds a park that has several steep staircases that he sprints up and down until his ribcage throbs and his pulse pounds painfully in his jaw and he’s nearly nauseous. 

He’s not supposed to work out this intensely with his injury, of course. But Eddie does a lot of things he’s not supposed to do.

The worst thing, probably, is that Eddie is at risk of becoming one of those people who _talks about running all the time_. If his coworkers didn’t already think his marriage was on thin ice, they definitely do now because all Eddie talks about is his pre-work run, and how early he woke up, and how many kilometers he ran, and how good he feels now. He just feels _great_. So much more _energy_.

It’s all fine until one day in early February. He’s out for his usual 6am, beat-out-the-bad-feelings, self-punishing run, and when he reaches the top of the stairs, he can’t catch his breath. 

That’s sort of normal, so he doesn’t panic immediately. He puts his hands on his head to stretch his chest; his neck aches and there’s a sharp throbbing under his ribs; he _can’t_ breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. Vision growing white and starry, he takes a few stumbling steps over to collapse on a bench. 

He fumbles with his arm band until he frees his phone. For a moment, he’s going to call Myra. Then he stops. He dials 911 instead. 

The EMTs and especially the doctor are not happy with him. Here’s a guy with a possible history of asthma but no inhaler—Eddie isn’t able to fully explain away the prescription in his records—six months out from some major trauma that had a lasting impact on his lung-capacity, going for a strenuous run on a cold winter day. 

Basically, it’s not anything _serious_ -serious, except for: he’s a fucking idiot. What did he think would happen? Use your inhaler, dumbass. 

Eddie texted Myra from the ambulance and assured her that he’s fine, he just pushed it a little too hard this morning. Obviously this wasn’t super reassuring to her, so she took the kids to school as early as she could and met him at the hospital before he was released. And she tells him that even if he doesn’t have asthma, he might have exercise-induced asthma—lots of people have it—especially with his injury, and if he’s going to be running by himself she would feel so much better knowing he has an inhaler with him. 

In the end, Eddie relents. He gets another prescription for an inhaler, this time for _exercise-induced_ asthma. Semantics. He still fucking hates it. 

Myra’s birthday is the day before Valentine’s Day. This is really the only reason why the Kaspbraks observe Valentine’s Day as a holiday; it gets neatly rolled in with Myra’s birthday and Eddie only really has to do something thoughtful for his wife once a year. 

Eddie has majorly whiffed it in the past. He’s had work conflicts spring up at the last minute (and he probably could have put his foot down with his boss but he didn’t) or he’s forgotten to make reservations or he’s made reservations at the wrong restaurant or he’s bought the wrong gift. 

This year Eddie knows he can’t afford to fuck it up, so he’s prepared. Babysitter, gifts, and reservations at the restaurant she was dropping hints about two weeks ago (the hints are unsubtle at this point; she sent him a google maps link). He’s good to go. 

Is Eddie using the occasion to slap a bandaid on his deteriorating marriage? Maybe a more apt metaphor is that he’s wrapping up his marriage in a nice red bow. 

He still meant what he said. He doesn’t intend to stay married to Myra forever. But he can’t dump her right before her birthday. And it’s going to take a while to get everything in order anyway, and he’s still nervous about how close they are to the affair. It’s not rational, but he thinks that the longer he waits, the less likely the truth will come out. Maybe the less likely that Myra will put two and two together. 

And it’s not like he has anything to end his marriage _for_ right now. 

He knows that’s a shitty way of thinking about it, but. That’s how he’s thinking about it. He’s going to throw his life in turmoil, possibly risk custody, definitely burn a bunch of money on lawyers only to—end up living in a shitty one-bedroom apartment in Queens while still paying the mortgage and child support and alimony? He’s going to endure all of that and Richie won’t even talk to him? 

So, no. He can hang on a little while longer. 

Myra’s birthday is on a Monday. Eddie makes the reservation for her birthday, the thirteenth, as always; it’s easier to get a table than on the fourteenth. When he gets home from work, the babysitter is already there. Eddie walks inside, says hi, and turns right around to leave again, to drive straight back into Manhattan. 

“We’re running late,” Myra says as they pull out of the driveway. “Maybe we should call and let them know. Make sure they don’t give the table away.”

“We’re not going to call,” Eddie says. “You know, you should have just met me there. Instead of me driving back and forth.”

“You should have left work early like you said you were going to.” 

_Touché_. Eddie frowns and hits the brakes as they head into traffic. 

Myra does end up calling the restaurant, despite Eddie’s grumbling about it. When she hangs up she says, pointedly, “They were glad I called. They moved us back half an hour.” 

“Great,” Eddie grumbles. 

Maybe he overlooked what should have been the most important part of his not-fucking-this-up plan: to actually treat his wife well and act like he wants to spend time with her on her birthday. 

Eddie is not so good at that. He can prepare, he can do his homework, but he can’t fake emotional affect. He had a shitty day—he’s been having a shitty _year_ —and he doesn’t want to be here, and he knows it’s only a matter of time until that becomes painfully obvious. 

The first half hour at dinner goes okay, actually. They order some wine and talk about their kids. Charlie has been pulled out of regular classes for some gifted program, the type they definitely didn’t have in schools when Eddie was growing up. He’s not sure what exactly qualifies an eight-year-old as ‘gifted’ but Charlie is… precocious. Myra’s happy about it, anyway. Frank meanwhile has been pulled out for speech therapy; he’s having trouble with his R’s still. They’ll fix him up. There’s always plenty to talk about if they stick to talking about their kids. They don’t even disagree about that many things. 

But there are sore spots. Recently Myra has been sharp with Eddie about his habit of bribing Frank with screen-time. Thinks it’s going to give him ADHD or something. Eddie thinks that, for one thing, it might be too late to change the fate of a kid born in 2011. If cell phones can give a person ADHD, Frank already has it. Secondly, if ADHD is particularly hereditary, well. He already has it. 

He imagines as the kids grow older they’ll run into more disagreements. He’s always found the disagreements they do have to be manageable; he never thinks she’s acting with anything other than the children’s best interest at heart. But it’s more than that. Eddie knows what it’s like to be hurt by good intentions, and he has a finely tuned internal detector for that kind of thing. 

The dinner conversation turns less pleasant when they veer tracks and Myra brings up Eddie’s injury. Well, specifically she brings up his running, but his injury is always the subtext. She mentions that the ambulance and hospital bills came in the mail today and Eddie says he’ll pay them. Which was not why she brought it up since it’s not like twelve hundred dollars is going to break the bank, but if she wants to talk about his hospital visit she can just ask about it instead of passive-aggressively mentioning the bill. 

The pretense falls away completely when Myra asks, “You don’t have any pain, do you? It wasn’t that long ago that you could hardly walk.” 

“If I couldn’t do it, I would stop,” Eddie says, tone measured. His entire body has tensed up defensively, but he tries not to let it show. “I’ll monitor it. It’s my body.” 

“You already pushed yourself too hard once and ended up back in the hospital.” 

“Myra–”

“I just wish you would be careful. I know you want to prove that you can do this now but–”

“I’m not– I’m not trying to _prove_ anything,” Eddie snaps. He’s too quick to jump on the defensive when Myra starts telling him things about himself. He doesn’t quite know _why_ he hates it so much. Maybe he just hates the idea that she does know him, and she does see through some of the fronts he puts up. Eddie doesn’t like to think that he’s so easy to read; he doesn’t like to think that he’s shown himself. Eddie says, low and angry, “You’re so concerned now but you never even _asked_ what happened in Maine.” 

She takes in a sharp breath. “Eddie.”

“Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know what happened?” Eddie feels cruel, he knows he’s being cruel, and his not-fucking-this-up plan has gone to shit, but. He can’t stop. “I told you I was going to a conference in Cincinnati only to turn up forty-eight hours later unconscious in a hospital in Maine with five friends I’d never mentioned before and we’ve never fucking talked about it.” 

Myra has tears in her eyes. She stares at the table. “It doesn’t matter at this point.”

“How can we have an ‘open and honest dialogue–’” (Eddie is probably in the running for Worst Husband of the Year for sarcastically quoting their couples therapist from three years ago) “–if you don’t even care?” 

Myra fixes her gaze at him and Eddie shrinks back. “You want an open and honest dialogue, Eddie? Really?” 

“Yeah?” he says, his voice weak. “I mean. I want– I want to tell you what happened, I just know you wouldn’t believe me.” 

“Oh, well, I’m glad you’ve already thought through this entire conversation on your own and you don’t need me for it.” 

“No, I’m serious, Myra,” Eddie says, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “You would think I’m insane.” 

She doesn’t flinch. “Try me.” 

She waits but Eddie doesn’t speak. 

Myra looks back to her menu. “Okay, I guess you don’t want to tell me after all.” 

They eat their dinner in tense silence. The waitress seems uncomfortable and a little sympathetic every time she stops by to refill waters or clear away a dish. Eddie wonders how many failing relationships she’s witnessed; she could probably write a book. They drive home in tense silence. Myra dismisses the babysitter, Hannah, after a pleasant chat with her; she’s a neighborhood girl, thirteen or fourteen. The kids were good and they’re in bed. Myra sneaks into each bedroom to kiss them goodnight. Eddie drives Hannah home; she lives nearby, but it’s late and cold. He gives her sixty dollars cash which is probably much more than she was expecting and she doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, clutching the bills in her hand and staring at him. “Thanks, Mr. Kaspbrak,” she says and hops out of the car. 

When he returns not even ten minutes later, Myra is in her pajamas and brushing her teeth in the ensuite bathroom off the master bedroom. 

Eddie lingers in the threshold for a moment. He loosens his tie and shrugs off his suit coat, hangs up both in the closet. 

When Myra leaves the bathroom, she takes her pillow from the bed and says, “I’m going to sleep in the guest room.” 

“Some date night,” Eddie mutters. 

Myra freezes and turns around slowly. Eddie braces for impact. 

“You know,” she starts, smiling a little, which is a very bad sign, “I thought that things would get back to normal after you recovered. I thought, if we can just get through this, things will be okay. But I have tried everything and nothing is working, and I– I don’t know what to do anymore! But then I realized, I realized– things _have_ returned to normal. I just had this idealized image of what you were like before all of this, and I forgot that you’ve always been–” She makes a wild gesture at him, up and down, encapsulating his whole body.

He’s always been– him. That’s what that means. 

Eddie feels, actually, relieved to hear it. It sounds like a death knell for their marriage, and he wasn’t the one who had to say it. 

So when he replies, he’s calm: “I think we should take a break.”

In late February, Eddie stops making excuses and calls Stan. Stan has stayed true to his word to keep in touch, but Eddie has been avoiding him, rather transparently, for almost two months. So one Wednesday evening while Myra takes the kids to a movie—they spend time with the kids separately now—Eddie sits down in the living room in front of the muted TV and calls Stan.

They catch up for a while, generic questions and answers about work, until neither can ignore the undercurrent of tension, of things unsaid. Eddie is the first to crack. 

“Richie moved back to L.A., obviously. About a month ago. A little more than a month ago.” Eddie pauses. “You can do the ‘I told you so’ thing now. Might as well get that out of the way.”

Stan snorts a laugh, but he’s not condescending when he asks, “What happened? 

Eddie explains, and it feels good to get it all off his chest, to sort through things out loud: Leading up to the SNL appearance, everything came to a head and it felt too risky. Richie left and started giving him the cold shoulder. They fought and Richie told him he needs space. Eddie has been at home, working and actively sabotaging his marriage. 

“We’re taking a ‘break’ now,” Eddie tells him. “I mean, we’re still living together. We’re sleeping in separate bedrooms, but it’s not the first time that’s been the norm for us. Actually, while Richie was staying with us, that was the longest continuous period we’d slept together probably… ever. Or at least since our first year of marriage.” 

“Ironic,” Stan says dryly. 

“Yeah. I think it’s working. It’s awkward. You know, little things. She doesn’t cook dinner for me anymore. Like, she’ll serve the kids and then put the food away in the fridge and then I have to get up and take the Tupperware back out of the fridge and serve myself.” Eddie chuckles. “It’s kind of absurd. I don’t know if she’s trying to get me to crack or… And the kids, we don’t spend time with them together anymore. So they’re getting more attention than they’ve ever had. That first year of divorce thing, right? I take them to dinner like three times a week. Frank’s birthday is coming up. Well, end of April. I’m not sure what we’ll do for that. I’m sure he’ll be fine if he gets two birthdays, though.”

Stan hums. 

“Sorry, I’m talking a lot,” Eddie says. “I know it’s a small step, but it’s still a step in the right direction.” 

On the other end of the line, Stan takes in a breath and lets it out in a long sigh. “Eddie… If you don’t have any intention of staying with her long-term, you shouldn’t frame this as a break. You know what I mean? You’re setting her expectation that this is temporary and that you’re going to be together again. Being gentle now is only going to hurt everyone later.” 

Eddie tenses, his deeply-ingrained defense mechanisms kicking in. This is why he could never stomach therapy for very long. “Well, maybe it’s a- a gradual process,” he argues. “Like, maybe she can realize this is going to be best for everyone. The kids can have time to adjust.” 

After a beat of silence, Stan concedes, “Maybe. I honestly don’t know what to tell you. It’s a really hard situation and I’m sorry you’re going through this. But I told you I didn’t want to be involved.” 

Eddie blinks, prickly-hot shame rushing over him. “Oh. I’m sorry, I thought I could– I’m sorry for dumping all of this on you.” 

“It’s okay,” Stan says quietly. “I know you need someone to talk to.”

Well, Eddie feels like a piece of shit. He desperately tries to change the topic: “So, uh, did you see this–”

But Stan interrupts: “Sorry, I have to get going now. Have a good rest of your night.” 

“Uh, yeah, you too.” 

Stan hangs up and Eddie sits for another half an hour, staring at the flickering TV, eyes unfocused. 

In early March, Eddie sends birthday wishes to Richie along with everyone else in the Losers group chat. A simple, _Happy birthday, Richie_ , sent mid-morning while he sits at his desk at work. Later in the afternoon, Richie sends a collective _THANK YOU!!_ back. Then Bill says he and Audra are taking Richie out for his birthday and a few more messages roll in about that. Eddie watches, his stomach in knots, finding it unbearable how close Richie is while still being unavailable to him. He feels _resentful_ , seeing Bill and Richie text back and forth about their plans for the evening; and it’s a really dark and unproductive way to feel. So Eddie turns his phone to silent and flips it facedown on his desk so he can get back to work. 

They call a truce for Frank’s birthday. It’s Myra’s idea; she doesn’t want to ‘confuse’ him, but Eddie thinks the two months of his parents barely speaking to each other has already done the damage. And Eddie recognizes that Myra is probably making a move to end the ‘break.’ Of course they’re not going to actually talk about it. Instead she’ll propose that they go out to eat like a normal family for Frank’s birthday—in some late-game play to avoid fucking up their children—and the line will move, and she’ll find ways to move it a little farther, and they’ll be back to their usual status quo in no time. 

That’s exactly what happens. Eddie doesn’t hold the line as strongly as he should. First it’s Frank’s birthday and then it’s family dinners once a week and of course both Eddie and Myra need to go the kids’ end of year events at school. Soon the only thing left is that Myra is still sleeping in the guest room.

That changes in June. Charlie’s birthday is half a week after school lets out for the summer and Liz and Joe come down to celebrate. They’re not even staying the night, but Myra insists on returning the guest room to a guest room just in case they notice its lived-in state and start asking questions. That night, after they’ve seen off their guests and put the kids to bed, Myra changes into her pajamas and settles into bed next to Eddie. 

“Myra,” Eddie says.

“What?” Her act of oblivious innocence would work better if it wasn’t one of Eddie’s oldest tricks. 

“Come on. I know what you’re doing.” Eddie sighs and swings his legs over the edge of the bed to get up. “You’re making me be the bad guy here.” 

“Must be so hard for you.” 

Eddie stands at the foot of the bed at looks at her. She’s not going to surrender, he can tell. “Let’s sit down and actually talk about this tomorrow. I said I needed some space and–” 

“You didn’t need space when I started cooking for you again or doing your laundry or–”

Eddie lets out a bitter laugh. “Well, I haven’t exactly stopped paying the mortgage or– or your cell phone bill or–” 

“Are you threatening to–?”

“No, I’m not _threatening_ anything!” 

She shushes him, eyes flashing to their closed bedroom door and back. 

Eddie holds his head in his hands for a moment. “Jesus Christ. This is why we need to talk. So I can lay out exactly what I’m not going to do—I’m _not_ going to leave you high and dry, for instance—and we can go from there.” 

She does not look reassured by this. Her eyes are shiny. “Eddie.”

“Tomorrow,” he promises, already having said too much. “I can’t– Let’s talk about this tomorrow.” 

He retreats to the guest room. 

They talk the following night. Sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, Eddie tells her most of the truth. He hedges a little, says, “I don’t think I’m in love with you anymore.” Maybe he should have stated it more strongly but the real issue is: Myra doesn’t seem to think that’s as big of a problem as Eddie does. They’ll go back to counseling or they’ll give it more time. Eddie tries to say that he doesn’t _want_ to work things out, but he ends up saying something closer to: he doesn’t think things can be worked out. Myra probably sees this as a challenge. She can fix it. She can fix anything that’s wrong, he just needs to talk to her.

Eddie doesn’t express himself correctly, doesn’t state things as strongly and clearly as he should. He keeps thinking of what Stan said; he shouldn’t break her heart by inches; it’s crueler to try to be kind with this. And he keeps thinking of what Richie said, a lifetime ago; you’re braver than you think. 

Richie was wrong. Eddie’s a coward. That’s why he doesn’t tell Richie. He almost does, a few times. He sits with a message composed on his phone:

_Myra and I are separated now._

But he doesn’t send it. Because he knows what questions Richie would ask and he knows what his answers would be and he knows it’s still not enough. 

He finds a shitty condo only eight minutes away from the family house and the lease is monthly; he didn’t want to commit to a full year. He still sees Myra almost every day. She talks him into staying for dinner and when she says things like, _When you move back in_ , he doesn’t correct her. And he hasn’t contacted a divorce lawyer.

It’s a trial separation, technically. Nothing legally formalized. It still carries the implication that it’s temporary. Another tiny step in the right direction, but not enough.

The kids take it okay. When he moves into his new place, he takes them for the first weekend to get settled in at his Sad Divorced Dad apartment. 

“Are you getting divorced?” Charlie asks him on the drive over.

He glances in the rearview mirror to meet her eyes. “Uh. No. Not right now.”

“Mom says you’re not getting divorced. She says you’re just going to live somewhere else for a while.” 

“We’re not getting divorced right now,” Eddie says, and leaves it at that. “I’m still going to be around a lot. We’re going to try a schedule so that your mom and I both get to spend time with you. We both love you so much, okay? That’s never going to change.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, staring out the window. 

“Jonah’s parents are divorced,” Frank says, kicking his feet against the back of Eddie’s chair. “And Emma’s, too.” 

Charlie and Frank are unimpressed with his new place. It’s a somewhat cramped and dingy two-bedroom and he has very little furniture so far. They’re not excited about having to share a bedroom—well, Charlie isn’t excited—and there’s nothing to do here. There’s no lawn.

But there’s a park down the street, Eddie tells them. And, okay, he’s not proud of it. But the first post-separation Saturday with his kids he takes them to the mall and lets them buy any and every toy they’ve ever wanted to keep at his new place. Then he buys them ice cream and asks them not to tell their mother about the toys. 

Charlie nods seriously and takes a spoonful of her vanilla ice cream. “We won’t tell.”

Eddie has a feeling he has set himself up to get blackmailed by his own daughter, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. 

Later in the summer, Ben alerts the Losers that he’s been able to secure the Southampton AirBnB for the weekend of the anniversary of Derry. 

_Um_ , Richie replies immediately. _Is that something we want to celebrate?_

Ben: _I could get another weekend…_

Bill: _I’m free then. Let’s do it._

Eddie begins typing a reply, his skin itching with the proximity to Richie. They’re almost talking to each other. It’s like being in the same room. 

Eddie: _You don’t have to come to me. I can travel._

Ben: _Bev is obsessed with that house, sorry._

Bev: _Yeah, this isn’t about you, Eddie._

So, it’s a plan. Tentatively. Eddie feels good about the approaching date. He’ll get to see Richie again, in person, and explain the situation to him. It’ll be easier to talk to him like that. He won’t have to infringe on Richie’s request for space by reaching out to him. He could even tell all the Losers, at the same time: Myra and I are separated. He should tell them anyway, right? He can make it clear that he didn’t do this just for Richie. They’ve had time apart; Eddie has started making some of the necessary changes in his life; maybe they can find a way to fit together again. 

Eddie’s plan goes haywire a week before the get-together. Everyone’s flights are booked and it’s too late to reschedule, and– Richie bails.

He says: _Sorry! Work is crazy!_

When he reads that, sitting at work, Eddie slams his fist on his desk hard enough to hurt, sending shocks of pain reverberating up to his elbow. He shakes out his hand and opens his text message history with Richie, untouched since Richie’s _Not dead yet_ in January, and begins typing: _I know you need space, but you said it wasn’t going to be forever. It’s been six fucking months, Richie. How long do you plan to keep punishing me_

He stops typing. His hands are shaking. His face is hot and his heart is pounding. He takes a deep breath and backspaces.

He types: _I really need you. I’m really angry with you._

He erases that, too, but typing it out unlocks the emotion that he’s kept repressed. Tears prick at his eyes and he desperately rubs them away. It’s devastating to discover that this heartbreak feels just as raw as it did half a year ago, perfectly preserved. If anything, it’s more intense; distilled into pure pain. It’s fucking bullshit. If time doesn’t heal then what is it good for? 

_Have you stopped hurting yet? Does it ever stop hurting so bad?_

He deletes that, too. 

In early October, the Losers group chat dings with a message from Bev. She’s sent a photo. It’s her and Ben, standing close together on some beautiful woodsy trail, sunlight glowing through the brittle orange leaves. Her hand rests on Ben’s sweater-clad chest. They’re both smiling huge enough that their happiness transcends the still frame and their eyes seem to sparkle. On her hand, she wears a glittering diamond ring. The caption reads, _I said yes!_

The chat floods with congratulations and one _About time, Ben!_ from Richie. 

Eddie throws his own _Congratulations!_ into the mix. His chest feels tight. Then he puts his phone facedown on his desk and tries to concentrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check that ‘angst with a happy ending’ tag… trust in it.


	6. Chapter 6

Eddie’s flight into Chicago lands at 2:15pm. He’s off the plane and walking down the jetway by 2:30 because he bought himself a first class ticket. He deserves it. The rest of the weekend is going to kick his ass, so he figured he should treat himself and start off on the right foot. Bev and Ben’s rehearsal dinner is tonight, their wedding is tomorrow, and then he’s flying out on Sunday afternoon. It’s forty-eight hours, and a stupid, avoidant part of Eddie thinks he’d rather do forty-eight hours of Derry round two again but… no. This is going to end much better. Probably. 

He takes a cab from O’Hare to the hotel, his carry-on suitcase sitting on the backseat next to him. He still hasn’t spoken to Richie one-on-one since they broke things off. There have been a few brushes over the past year, times when he would reply to something Richie posted in the group chat and Richie would say something back. And he’s been liking Richie’s posts on Instagram. (Eddie has an _Instagram_ now.) But Richie has some fifty-thousand followers or something absurd, and Eddie’s not sure how the notifications work and whether Richie sees his likes, and besides Richie doesn’t post that much.

The worst thing, the thing that really drives Eddie up the wall is: He’s not sure if this is normal yet. Has Richie stopped giving him the cold shoulder? Has he stopped needing space? Or is it still going on? 

Eddie is a little too… angry-petty-proud to ask for clarification on that point. So he’s been stewing in the dark for a long time. And then the wedding planning started and there was more frequent chatting among the Losers and a date was set and then—Eddie had a date. He would see Richie again on a particular date. (Richie wouldn’t bail out of Ben and Bev’s wedding, he was sure of that much.) And knowing that made it all too easy to let everything else slide. 

Time passes quickly anyway. That’s the thing he forgot with the long few months of recovery after his injury, when his usual life and routine were thrown into turmoil. It didn’t take long for the current to pull him under and the weeks clipped by.

When Eddie enters the lobby of the hotel, he immediately spots his friends, before he even locates the concierge. They’re gathered in a conspicuous group in the center of the shining marble floor, just off to the side of a grand, cascading staircase. Not everyone is here yet. So far it’s Bill and Audra, Stan and Patty, and Mike and his new-ish girlfriend, Tanya. He’s heard a lot about Tanya but has not met her yet. 

Eddie ducks over to the front desk to check in before he gets noticed but—it doesn’t work. 

“Eddie!” calls Mike in his booming voice. 

Eddie flinches slightly; he turns toward them, grinning, his shoulders raised to his ears. “Oh, hey, guys. I was just gonna… check in first.”

They crowd around him for hugs and greetings; it _has_ been a long time, as each of them makes sure to point out. As Eddie returns their smiles and hugs, he relaxes a little. Because in all his anxious fixating on Richie, he forgot that seeing his friends would be nice.

Eddie is formally introduced to Tanya. She’s tall enough to balance out Mike; she wears flat sandals and a summery dress, the straps cutting across the athletic build of her shoulders; her hair falls in neatly coiled curls.

“So nice to meet you,” Eddie says as he gives her a quick hug. 

Mike met her last summer, when he worked a few months driving the shuttle bus at Zion National Park. (Eddie spent the entire summer vaguely jealous of Mike’s ability to take a job like that; not much money, but a lot of freedom.) Tanya works in environmental education, and was taking a summer out west, too, something she’d always wanted to do. The story is, the two bonded over hiking and camping and big recent life changes. When the summer ended, Mike followed her back to Atlanta. Happy coincidence that her family is from there. 

“How do you like being neighbors?” Eddie asks, directing the question at the Urises and Mike. 

“We live on different sides of the city,” Stan answers, while Patty says it’s nice to have more friends in the area. 

Eddie smiles. Mike and Stan in Atlanta, with their significant others. Bill and Audra and Richie in L.A. Ben and Bev in Chicago. It seems as if all the Losers have someone. How _nice_ for them! 

If he keeps thinking that he’ll eventually lose the edge of jealous resentment. 

Eddie’s been pretty alone for the past year, but he’s trying to be mindful about it. He needs to be alone; he’s never really done it. It had been forever since he’s faced a weekend with only himself as company. Since he had to contemplate going to a restaurant or a movie theater alone. At first it was this novel opportunity, a challenge. Can he walk into a restaurant and ask to be seated at a table for two by himself? Can he tell the waitress, ‘No, I’m not waiting for anyone, it’s just me’? Can he eat an entire meal in silence without relying on his phone as a crutch?

Turns out, he _can_ do all of those things. He doesn’t love doing them, but he’s surviving. Maybe he’s growing; it’s hard to tell. Maybe he’ll come out on the other side stronger and better. More comfortable with himself. Ready to love and be loved. Maybe.

Eddie finishes checking in, and as a group they drift farther into the lobby and in the direction of the adjacent hotel bar. But they don’t make a lot of progress, so Eddie can still see the door when Richie walks in a few minutes later.

When Eddie sees Richie again, he stares. Eddie knows his face better than any, but maybe some of the proportions shifted in his memory. And he doesn’t seem quite as tall as Eddie remembered. His hair is shorter than it used to be, groomed tighter to his head, but there’s still some fluff to it. There’s grown-out stubble on his face, cutting a line under his cheekbones, the dark coarse hair peppered with gray. He wears jeans and a light, summery blazer; he has the same glasses. 

Eddie stares for a while, clinging onto his suitcase at his side, until Bill acknowledges him.

“There he is! Richie! Get over here!” 

Richie looks up, face melting from surprise into a smile; the smile tightens a bit when he meets Eddie’s eyes. He makes his way over to them, duffel bag on his shoulder and leaning one way to accommodate its weight. 

Richie is first introduced to Tanya then hugs each of them. They’re in a crowded hotel lobby and everyone is chatting and laughing, so Richie stares back at Eddie for only a moment before he ducks in for a quick hug. Because they have to act _normal_ , of course. Eddie pats his back, mutters, “Hi,” against his ear, and pulls back.

Eddie plans to pull him aside the first chance he gets, just to clear the air, but right now there’s no opportunity to get him alone. 

“Anyone seen the happy couple yet?” Richie asks, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. 

Mike looks at his phone. “Ben said they’re out with his mom. I’ll tell him we’re all here.” He taps out a message and re-pockets his phone. “They wanted to get a group photo since we haven’t all been together in a long time.” 

“Yeah, because _somebody_ ditched us for the reunion,” Bill teases, shoving Richie’s shoulder.

Richie rolls his eyes. “Oh, ha ha.” 

“Yeah, boo,” Mike says. And Bill says, jovially, “Boo, Richie.” 

“I love being booed,” says Richie, deadpan. “It really gets me going.” 

Stan snorts. “Shut up, Richie.” 

“Oh, I’m so close, please don’t stop.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Mike says, laughing. (Tanya says, “He’s the comedian,” as if just putting it together.) “Bar? I think there’s a bar.” 

Bill leads the way, and as they follow, Audra grabs Richie’s arm and says something to him that makes him laugh. 

The Losers reunion, last summer, was fine. Normal. Kinda weird. Patty went but Audra didn’t, and no one really asked Eddie about Myra so he didn’t say anything at first. They went to the beach but the weather turned and it was windy and chilly so they mostly stood around and shielded their eyes from blowing sand. That night, they hung out in the lawn and then got drunk enough to go swimming half-dressed in the pool. While they floated and lazily splashed each other, Eddie told them about his separation. They were sympathetic; no one seemed particularly surprised. He has no idea if the news ever made it back to Richie. Bill might have mentioned something. But obviously it didn’t matter because Richie never reached out. Bev and Ben still gave Eddie a plus-one for the wedding but he didn’t need it. He’s relieved that Richie is here alone, too. He might have had to throw himself into Lake Michigan otherwise. 

At the bar just off the lobby, Eddie finally gets his chance. Richie is left at the bar by himself, waiting for his drink, while everyone else snags a few chairs and couches in the back. Eddie sidles up next to him and says, “Hey.”

Richie glances at him. “Hey… What’s new?” 

Eddie forgets his be-civil plan for a moment as he snaps back, “What’s _new?_ ” 

Richie’s careful smile falls and his eyes narrow. “What, I can’t ask how you are? That’s not allowed?” 

“Sorry.” Eddie winces. “Can we take a moment?” 

“Sure, let’s _take a moment_.” 

“Like, come here.” Eddie nods toward a private hallway around the corner, out of the way of witnesses. “Please.” 

“I just ordered a drink.” Richie gestures at the cocktail-shaking bartender. 

“It will be here when you get back, come on.” Eddie takes his elbow to tug him around the corner and they stand in the hallway leading toward the bathrooms. Eddie turns to face him. It’s not an ideal location; a middle-aged woman walks past, and they step out of her path, quiet for a moment. Then Eddie says, “Okay. I’m going to tell you something and I just want to tell you and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I’m just telling you.” 

Richie folds his arms across his chest and leans against the wall. “Okay, tell me.” 

“Myra and I have been separated for about a year now.” 

Richie’s brow furrows. “Oh.” 

“Not– legally, or anything, yet, but. I have my own place. We have an informal arrangement with the kids. It works really well. It’s going well, actually.” 

“Okay–” 

Eddie interrupts, throwing his hands up. “Don’t say anything.” 

Richie blinks, mouth open. 

“Sorry. I mean. Don’t… You don’t have to react.” 

Richie is quiet for a long second, his eyebrows working. He closes his mouth and opens again. “Can I react?” 

“Sure.” 

Richie inhales, and Eddie cuts him off again: “Sorry, sorry, I want to say real quick– I wanted to tell you sooner, and I was going to tell you last summer but then you bailed on the reunion and apparently you were doing just fine without me, so.” 

Eddie snaps his mouth shut. _Great_. He’s already managed to fuck this up. Nice going, Eds. 

But Richie doesn’t look angry, he looks– sad or embarrassed. Regretful. “Look, Eddie, I’m really sorry–” 

“No, it’s okay, shit, I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t– I mean, I’m not– I’m not mad at you.” His face twists as he says it and Richie chuckles. 

“Convincing.” 

“Sorry. Okay. Honestly? I’ve spent a lot of time the past year being fucking pissed at you. There. I said it. It’s out in the open.” 

“And I, you,” Richie says diplomatically. 

“But I don’t want to do that this weekend. I really… I want to be normal. Can we be normal?” 

Richie looks at him. “We’re friends, right, Eds?” 

“Of course,” Eddie says, his breath leaving him like he’s been socked in the gut. “Richie, you’re my best friend.” 

“I’m sorry I haven’t been a good friend to you.” 

Eddie shrugs it off with a small laugh. “Well.” He gestures back and forth between them. _It goes both ways._

Richie shakes his head. “No, I’m serious. I… I recognize that it’s on me, the past year. I was the one who cut things off. And it got easier and easier to not talk to you. But I did miss you. I do miss you.” 

“I miss _you_ ,” Eddie says. 

For a moment, they smile at each other, fond and—when the middle-aged lady leaves the bathroom and walks past them again—a bit awkward and amused.

When they’re alone again, Richie says, “And I’m glad that things are going better for you.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I mean. I know I should be divorced by now but it’s–”

“You don’t have to explain anything.” 

“It’s just hard,” Eddie admits. “And this is working for me right now. Really.” 

“I’m glad.” Richie smiles and offers his hand. “Friends?” 

“Friends.” Eddie steps in a bit closer to shake his hand. 

It lingers when neither pulls away. Richie says, “Look at us. Being mature adults.” Then he yanks Eddie’s arm and tries to pull him in for a noogie; Eddie yelps and shoves him away, laughing. 

—

The rehearsal dinner is later that night. It’s in the event space on the top floor of the hotel; it’s not a large room, and it’s not a large crowd. Ben has some family and Bev has some friends, but neither of them had huge invite lists. The Losers get to meet Bev’s close friend Kay, who’s in her late 50s and an absolute live-wire. Her shrieking laughter can probably be heard on the ground floor. She is also responsible for a lot of the planning: the venue, the food, and she assures everyone that she and Bev worked together on the dress. Ben’s mom is here, and it becomes apparent just how young she is in a way that never quite struck them when they were children. In the summer of ’89, she was quite a bit younger than they are now, and just trying to hold it together. Now she’s barely sixty, petite and a little timid, but she can hardly stop smiling the entire evening. 

She doesn’t remember ever meeting any of Ben’s childhood friends; her eyes flicker curiously when Derry is mentioned. But she is overjoyed to meet them now, and glad that Ben has so many good friends. 

There are three round tables, and Richie is seated next to Eddie at the Losers’ table. (There’s even a little card that reads _Losers’ Table_ in a scripty font; “Cute touch,” Richie mutters when they sit down. “In case any of us forget.”) Richie expected to be seated next to Eddie, especially since both of them are here solo. 

He’s feeling… okay about it. He’s glad they talked things out. But he’s coming into this with over a year of built-up tension and expectations and resentments and worries. The way it manifests now is: Every time one of them moves and bumps into the other (the tables are weirdly small, as if Ben and Bev couldn’t spring for something roomier) they both apologize and try to scoot farther apart. Or: Eddie refills his own water glass then offers the pitcher to Richie. Richie says, “Please,” and Eddie moves to fill Richie’s glass for him while Richie moves to take the pitcher _from_ Eddie and– they both freeze, awkwardly chuckle, and apologize again. 

So they’re not exactly back to normal. And sitting next to each other means they can’t look _at_ each other without turning their heads and really confronting how close they are. So instead, they both fix their gaze straight ahead and mostly ignore each other. 

Richie is almost amused by it. He and Eddie are bad at everything, huh? They’re bad at being friends—they’re too intense, all rushing blood and biting words, but they could probably read each other’s minds if they could both shut up for a second. They’re bad at being in love—for much the same reason. They both want too much. And they’re bad at this—attempted normalcy. It’s a charade. He can feel Eddie silently screaming next to him, and he wants to elbow him and laugh and whisper, _Me, too._ At least they’re in it together. 

A welcome distraction comes when somebody—Mike—asks Bill what he’s been up to lately. Bill seeks out Richie’s attention from across the table, and holds his gaze as he says: “Well, actually Richie and I have an exciting new project.” 

Richie laughs and leans back in his chair. “Yeah, I finally caved and we’re working together.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Patty says warmly. Eddie echoes it: “Yeah, that’s really… That’s great.”

There’s a beat of silence before Stan asks, “So… what’s the project?” 

Bill leaps into it, always ready for the elevator pitch: “It’s a horror-comedy series about three roommates living together in an apartment that’s haunted by the physical manifestation of fear. It’s otherwise harmless, but it shape-shifts into their fears, you know? But they’ve been living with it for so long it’s just a fourth, freeloader roommate at this point.” 

There’s a much longer beat of silence before Mike says, “You’re writing a comedy series about It?” 

“Horror-comedy,” Richie corrects, dryly. He takes a sip of wine. 

Eddie starts laughing first. Then Richie. Then everybody. Tanya, too, because of course Mike must have told her.

Bill chuckles, mild and just a little annoyed. “Okay, yeah, but it’s going to be– it’s going to be a way to look at the concept of fear, just mundane, everyday– Richie, tell them.” 

Richie pulls himself together. “Yeah, no, I’m actually… I’m actually really excited about this. I like the idea of giving Bill’s usual shit a comedic slant. And we work well together, who would’ve thought?”

“I keep him focused,” Bill says. 

“I’m his muse,” Richie says. “Sorry, Audra.”

She raises her hands in surrender. “All yours.”

Mike is still chuckling, his shoulders shaking. “I can’t believe… Do Ben and Bev know–?” He twists around in his seat toward the other table where they’re seated. “Hey, come over here a second.” 

They get filled in, everyone laughs again, and then Bill, bless his heart, reveals the working title is ‘Ghostmates.’ 

“We’re not married to that title,” Richie says, as another round of laughter fades. “Like, not at all. We’re not even dating it. We’re not even fuck-buddies.”

Bill says, “Yeah, help us– fucking help us come up with a better title, then.” 

He’s sort of mad for real now. Richie can tell because they _have_ been working together. Bill is great at having a vision in his head, and he will put in the hours to commit that vision to paper; but he’s not always great at explaining that vision to other people in a concise way. Richie’s a little apprehensive about their plan to pitch this in the fall. But whatever; their names alone will probably land them _something_. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Richie says. “Let’s brainstorm.”

“Something with…” Mike begins. “Living with fear… Is that too literal?”

“You and me and fear makes three,” Tanya says, grinning.

Bill shoots it down without remorse: “But there are three roommates.”

“Just the fear of us,” Stan suggests.

Richie furrows his brow. “I kinda like that but what does it mean?” 

Patty ventures, “House ghost… house guest… is that something?” 

“Yeah…” Bill nods and pulls out his phone to start taking notes. “That might be something.” 

They go around in circles for a while and they don’t come up with anything good, but Bill writes it all down anyway. Richie eventually puts an end to it and asks Stan and Patty what’s new with them.

Before either of them answer, Patty shoots Stan a look. He nods and she says, “Well, I’m pregnant…”

There’s a beat of silence before Richie explodes. “What! I can’t believe you let us talk about our dumbass show for that long while you were sitting on that! What the fuck! That’s amazing!”

The loud congratulations and lively chatter attract Bev’s attention; she and Ben leave their table to visit again and get the news. They’re absolutely thrilled and now _everybody_ in the room knows. 

“Sorry,” Stan says, his face flushed. “We weren’t trying to upstage you.” 

“Are you kidding?” Ben looks like he’s going to _cry_. “This is fantastic news.” 

Later in the evening, when they’re finished with dinner and toasts, there’s unstructured time to mill around and chat and drink. Apparently neither Richie nor Eddie feel very gregarious because they both stay seated at the table, sipping wine, and having a painfully stilted conversation about Richie’s career and Eddie’s job and kids, trying to catch each other up on the past year and a half. 

“I have this shitty two-bedroom apartment now,” Eddie tells him. “But it’s really close, which is nice.”

“That’s good,” Richie says, tone measured. “Do you get weekends or what?” 

“Yeah, uh, every other weekend is what we agreed on. She didn’t want to give up all the weekends. And I fill in when needed, you know, during the week.”

“Cool, is that, like, working okay?”

The conversation continues like that until Richie thinks he might rather have his fingernails pulled out one-by-one. Finally, Ben decides he needs some Eddie-time and plops down in the chair on his other side. While Eddie’s life-updates reel rewinds to the beginning, Richie excuses himself. 

He notices that Bev is nowhere to be found, so he wanders out onto the terrace, through the slightly ajar door. The early summer night is a bit chilly; he stuffs his hands into his pockets and stiffens his shoulders against the cool breeze. The door closes behind him, and the sounds of the party muffle, drowned out by the noise of the city, the whoosh of traffic and endless cricket-choir of honking horns. 

Bev stands with her elbows on the railing, staring out, and smoking a cigarette. 

“Thought I might find you here,” Richie says. 

She startles slightly, and throws him a guilty smile. “Fuck, you caught me.” 

He settles in next to her, leaning against the railing and looking down, a dizzying seventeen floors to the street below. 

“I’m trying to quit, you know,” Bev says. 

“Yeah, looks like you’re trying really hard.”

“For real. This is my last cigarette.” She glances over to him, eyes dancing. 

“Make it a good one, then.” Richie digs into his coat pocket and lights up his own. 

Across the way from where they’re standing, there’s an apartment building. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, they peer into a couple unsuspecting Chicagoans’ lives. Some young woman walking around her kitchen in a robe. Some guy sitting on the couch and watching TV. Another light flickers on two floors below; they both glance down with interest as a couple walks in and sits at the kitchen table. It’s good people watching. Does no one own blinds?

Richie wonders aloud, “How long until this chick slips out of her robe?” 

“Richie, don’t take this the wrong way, but I like you more now that I know you’re gay.” 

He barks a laugh. “Okay, fair.” 

Bev turns away. “We probably shouldn’t watch them.”

Richie shrugs. “Maybe they want to be watched.” He stares for another minute or two before he turns around to lean with his back against the railing. He sighs and says, “I don’t want to be that friend who has drama at your wedding but–” 

“It’s too late, Richie, you’re already that friend,” Bev says. “You and Eddie aren’t subtle. You’re both acting insane.” 

Richie snaps his head toward her, surprised. “Really? I think we’ve been… pretty normal.” 

“That’s what makes it insane. You’re like… being polite to each other. I haven’t heard any yelling all night. What gives?” 

Richie doesn’t answer right away. His heart thuds in his chest. Then he turns to her to look her fully in the eye. “Bev, you really have to swear not to tell anyone. Not even Ben, okay?” 

Her eyes are wide. “Yeah, sure, I can go into a new marriage already keeping secrets, that’s fine.” 

He turns away to slump against the railing again. “Hey, you asked.” 

“Richie, tell me.” 

He takes a deep breath. “When I was living with him last year, we… started sleeping together.” 

Bev is quiet for a second. He doesn’t look to see her face, but she’s very still. “Oh, holy shit.” 

“Yeah.” Richie deflates slightly, the weight off his shoulders. “And we broke it off when I moved back to L.A. and this is the first time we’ve seen each other—or really spoken to each other—since then.”

“Oh, _holy shit_. Like. Wait.” 

Richie waits. 

Bev shakes her head. Her cigarette has burned down to the filter and apparently she forgot it was her last one because she lights another. “So… so. What does that mean? Like, you had an affair?” 

“I guess.” 

“You guess?” She laughs, disbelieving. “Shit. Was it… just physical or…?” 

“No, I’m fucking in love with him.” 

“Richie.” Her heart sounds like it’s breaking and Richie feels like such an asshole. It’s the eve of her wedding for fuck’s sake. Who deserves uncomplicated happiness more than Beverly Marsh? God. Richie is such an asshole. 

He shakes his head and stands up from the railing, moving to go back inside. “I’m sorry, Bev, I’m–” 

“Hey, it’s okay.” She grabs his arm, stopping him. “It’s okay. That’s just… a lot to process.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

She tugs him into a hug. 

Richie goes easily, letting her wrap her arms around his waist. She’s so small, almost nothing to hold. He looks out over the top of her head, at the dark buildings and the bustling traffic below. “I wish I was shorter than you,” he mumbles. “This isn’t very comforting. I want to rest my head on your bosom…” 

Bev hugs him tighter. “You could get on your knees.” 

Richie laughs against her hair. “But Miss Marsh, you are to be wed tomorrow. What would your betrothed say?” 

Her shoulders shake with laughter. “Shut up, Richie.” 

“Will do,” he says, still holding her, and beginning to rock them back and forth. Then finally he says, “You know, the worst part is that he loves me, too.” 

She hums, understanding. “Where does that leave you now?” 

“I’m not sure. We’re friends? But obviously we can never really be the same and that sucks.” 

“He’s separated from his wife.” 

“I know,” Richie says, his chest seizing. “I’m… yeah. He didn’t tell me until today, but… I’m aware. I think he needs time.” 

“Maybe.” There’s a smile in her voice. “Or maybe he doesn’t.” 

Richie’s body tenses and he stops swaying. “Bev, if I was any other friend of yours– Okay, imagine I was a hot young female friend of yours. I’m telling you I had an affair with a married man, and that he told me he loved me, but then he got too spooked about his wife finding out so we broke up and then a year and a half later he’s still married, he just has his own bachelor pad now or whatever? What’s your advice to me?” 

Bev chuckles. “My advice is–” 

Her tone sounds too optimistic so Richie interrupts: “This is to your young, vulnerable female friend, remember?” 

She continues, her tone unchanged: “My advice is… go for it. Don’t waste time.” 

Richie groans. “You’re full of shit.” He pulls her into a crushing bear-hug, and arches his back to lift her feet off the ground. “You are totally full of shit.” 

“I’m a romantic,” Bev protests, gripping his arms. “Put me down.”

The next day, the wedding and reception are held in a converted warehouse space; a bus shuttles guests back and forth from the hotel. The ceremony is lovely, simple. Ben and Bev both cry, of course. _Everyone_ cries. The Losers are split evenly and somewhat-arbitrarily across Ben’s side and Bev’s side. Richie stands flanking Bev, in between Kay and Mike. Across from him, he keeps making eye contact with Eddie and flashing him a quick, controlled smile before they both look away. 

Of course, he and Eddie are seated next to each other again at dinner. But tonight the table is a bit roomier and the conversation is livelier, so he doesn’t overthink it every time he adjusts in his seat or leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. When Eddie refills his own water glass, he tops off Richie’s without asking. 

When the dance floor opens for business, Richie spends about an hour awkwardly standing at the edge, bobbing his head. Eddie pops up next to him, sipping his drink—a gin and tonic—and staring out over the small crowd. 

“Hey,” Eddie says.

“Hey,” Richie says. 

“Are you glad to be back in L.A.?” 

Richie considers, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. It’s home, I guess. It’s kind of nice, I mean, this thing with Bill. It’s stupid but–”

“No, it sounds really cool,” Eddie says, way too earnest. 

“Thanks. I am excited about it. It’s nice to have something to work on that I actually enjoy.”

“That’s great.” 

They’re both silent for a beat, taking a synchronized sip of their drinks. It’s like they’re both trapped in bubbles or space suits or something, like they’re trying to communicate over an intercom and there’s a delay, eight seconds from earth to the moon. Richie doesn’t know how to be normal anymore. If they were ever normal at all. His entire life, everything he ever said to Eddie was carefully paved over with layers of plausible deniability and hints that he wanted Eddie to pick up on just as badly as he wanted them to go ignored. The real problem is now all those layers are gone. They’ve been stripped bare and just saying ‘hello’ to one another feels terribly vulnerable. Eddie has seen every inch of Richie’s body and soul and he can _still_ see him. 

Richie has no idea how to rebuild this, or if it can be rebuilt. 

“So, um,” Richie begins, but then Bev swoops in, her dress swirling around her. She grabs Eddie’s free hand and pulls him onto the dance floor. Her face is flushed, wearing a bright, wide smile. 

“Come dance with me!” 

“Oh, alright.” Eddie chuckles and twists to hand his drink to Richie, eyebrows furrowed. “Can you–? Thanks, Richie.” 

“Yeah, yeah, gotta give Bridezilla what she wants.” 

He’s not sure whether Bev’s diversion was purposeful; if she sensed the tension from across the room. Or maybe she really _does_ want to dance with Eddie. Maybe Richie needs to stop overthinking everything, reading into everyone’s actions too much. Not everything is about him, after all. 

He stands a while longer, on the edge of the dance floor, double-fisting drinks. He alternates sips of his own bourbon and Eddie’s gin and tonic—they don’t go well together—and watches the crowd. Bev spins Eddie around, jumping to the upbeat 80s song that blasts over the speakers. 

When Richie finishes his own drink, he sets his empty glass and Eddie’s half-full one on the table behind him. Then he skirts the edge of the dance floor to make his way to the front door. Outside, the night is warm and humid. He stands on the stairs and takes out a cigarette.

He really does need to quit. _You should stop while it’s still easy to_ , he thinks. Eddie said that to him, a long time ago. Solid advice. But Richie is an idiot who never does the easy thing.

As he stands and smokes, he realizes he’s not sure exactly where in the city he is. The street here is quiet, semi-industrial; definitely gentrified. He’s familiar with Chicago. He lived here for a few months after college before he continued on farther west; he frequently visits for work; he was here when Mike called him, almost two years ago. 

But right now, he has no idea where he is. He couldn’t even tell you in which direction the fucking lake is. 

He’s pulling out his phone to open google maps and check—because he doesn’t like not knowing where he is—when he hears from behind him:

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke.” 

Richie turns. It’s Eddie, lingering in the open door, sheepish smile on his face. 

Richie smiles back and says, “Yeah, I wish I wouldn’t either.” 

Eddie takes a few steps down until he’s on the sidewalk beside him. His hands are empty; no pretense. He folds them behind his back. “So. Um. Have you been seeing anyone?” 

Richie barks a laugh. Hell of an opening line for small talk between exes. (Are they exes, technically?) “Have I been–? No. I haven’t been seeing anyone. Have you been seeing anyone?” 

“A therapist,” Eddie mutters. 

“You’re dating a therapist?” 

“No, I’m going to–” 

“I know, dude, I know. I’m kidding.” Richie chuckles and flicks some ash to the sidewalk. “You must be a fucking nightmare in therapy.” 

Eddie nods. “Yeah, pretty much.” He sighs and folds his arms across his chest. He rocks up on his feet, to his toes, then back on his heels. “I still love you.” 

“Eddie–” 

“No, don’t… say anything.” He holds up a hand, palm out. “Just let it sit there a second. I’m still in love with you.” 

Richie lets it sit there. Then he says, “What’s this thing with you not letting me speak recently?” 

Eddie continues, “And I know I fucked everything up–” 

“It was a mutual fucking up–” 

“–and I know I have to sort out my shit before I can even ask you to… whatever.” 

Richie glances at his face in profile. “Ask me to what?” 

Eddie shrugs. “To love me back, I guess.” 

Richie turns to really look him, and Eddie meets his gaze. “Eddie, are you fucking kidding me? I’ve never not loved you. I wouldn’t know how.” 

Eddie stares back for a moment, his dark eyes wide and lips parted. Then he looks back to the ground. He smiles slightly. “This would be easier if you were pissed at me. It’d be justified.” 

Richie laughs bitterly. He turns away from Eddie and examines the smoldering tip of his cigarette. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t feel the way you think I should–” 

It does sound angry; Eddie smiles and mutters, “There it is.” 

“–but honestly this all just makes me really sad. It’s like we had this chance, this real shot, and it was this bright, intense thing for a moment in time and now it’s behind us, and I almost want to go back even though it fucking sucked for all sorts of reasons, and I just feel… sad.” 

Eddie’s smile fades. “I know. Me too.” 

They can hear the music drifting out through the propped doors. Not distinct enough to make out words or a melody, just the slow, thumping beat. 

Then Eddie turns to him, offering a hand, a small smile on his lips again. “Can I have one dance at least?” 

“Eddie…” 

“Look, nothing makes it easier. Right? So can we just wallow for a few minutes?” 

“Compelling argument…” 

Richie drops the cigarette butt to the ground and takes his hand. He pulls Eddie in, and rests his other hand on the small of his back. Eddie places his free hand on Richie’s shoulder, tentative at first, then his wrist relaxes and his fingers curl against the fabric of his suit coat. 

They sway back and forth, spinning in a slow circle and not looking each other in the eye. 

Eddie says, “At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I’m going to work this out. I don’t know exactly when or exactly how. But I have met with a few lawyers. I’m making progress.” 

“That’s good.” 

“I know I’m slower than you deserve–” 

“I don’t deserve anything.” 

“Hey,” Eddie says sharply. “Shut the fuck up.” 

Richie rolls his eyes. “I’m kidding.” 

“You’re not, though. That pisses me off.”

Eddie drops his hand and steps in closer to press against Richie, turning his head to rest on his shoulder. Richie inhales and wraps both arms around Eddie’s waist to hold him there. They keep swaying, feet shuffling in a short circle and holding each other. 

Eddie says, “I don’t want you to have to wait for me. It’s bullshit. I couldn’t live with myself.” 

“Now you’re the one who needs to shut the fuck up,” Richie says. “What else am I gonna do?” 

“I don’t know, live your life? You’re, like, super successful and you have friends and you live in L.A. and I’m this boring fucking risk analyst father of two who’s asking you to put your life on hold while he grows the balls to divorce his wife? It’s embarrassing, frankly.” 

Richie pulls back, hands on Eddie’s arms. He gives him a stern look and shakes him lightly, jokingly. _Pull yourself together._ Eddie smiles, reluctant.

Richie says, “Your kids are rad as hell, though. Don’t say ‘father of two’ like it’s a point against you. I miss them.” 

“They miss you,” Eddie says quietly. 

“You know, Eds, you’re putting me in a tough spot because there’s no way I can respond to this without sounding corny as fuck. I could say that I already waited twenty-seven years for you, but, like, barf, right?” 

“Yeah.” Eddie fake-gags and sticks his tongue out. “Disgusting.” 

“Or I could say that you _are_ my life, so there’s nothing to put on hold but– not only super fucking cheesy, it’s just not true. I am, after all–” He grins wickedly, “–super successful and I have friends and I live in L.A.–”

“Richie, fuck _off_.” Eddie buries his face against Richie’s lapel. 

Richie laughs and kisses the top of his head. Then he frowns against his hair. “Sorry, maybe that was too much.” His hair smells amazing, he can’t help but notice; fresh and piney.

“No, it’s fine.” 

“Eddie. My thought is… maybe we just have to trust that we feel the same way about each other. Like, I know that sounds fucking bonkers, but hear me out. I think the way you feel about me, that’s how I feel about you. Let that sink in for a moment. Trust it. And the way I feel about you—I’m going to trust that that’s how you feel about me.”

“Shit,” Eddie says quietly, with humor. 

“I know,” says Richie. 

“I’m sorry you’re going through that.” 

“Yeah. My condolences to you, as well.” 

“It hurts,” Eddie whispers, like a secret. His lip curls in a pained smile. 

“I know.” Richie winds his arms around his waist. “I know exactly how you feel.”

“Can we–” Eddie pauses and starts again, “Do you wanna go back to the hotel?” 

They stop swaying. Their feet plant firmly on the ground. 

Richie says, “If we leave early together that’s gonna be really fucking obvious.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“I told Bev.” 

Eddie pulls back to look him in the eye. “What? You told her–? When?” 

“Last night,” Richie says. 

“Why’d you do that?” 

“I don’t know, dude, we were being weird, and she noticed, and I– I told her, whatever. I can vent to my friends. Is that allowed?” 

“But she’s, like, a mutual friend! That’s different! You _know_ that’s different!” Even as Eddie scolds him, raising his voice as his eyebrows climb his forehead, he stays in Richie’s arms. “And she definitely told Ben.” 

“I told her not to tell Ben.” 

“Oh, get real, Richie. Ben knows. So now it’s…” He counts them off on his fingers, “Stan and Patty _and_ Bev _and_ Ben. Jesus _Christ_. Why don’t we just ask the DJ to make a fucking announcement?” He hangs his head in his hands while Richie chuckles. “What if… what if I leave first and you leave in like half an hour?” 

“That’s not much better,” Richie says. “Let’s just leave. They already know. Whatever.” 

“Yeah, let’s go say goodnight to our friends who know we’re leaving to go fuck.” 

Richie blinks. “Yeah, let’s do that. YOLO.”

They split up to make the rounds independently, so maybe some illusion of subtlety is maintained. Richie finds Stan and Patty where they’re sitting together at one of the tables, quietly chatting. 

“I’m heading out,” Richie says as they both stand up to give him a hug. 

“With Eddie?” Stan nods to him, across the room, where he’s giving his best to the newlyweds. 

“Um…” Richie looks back to him, guilty smile. “Well.” 

“Is this what you want, Richie?” 

Richie shoots a nervous glance at Patty who’s minding her own business, sitting at the table again. “Did you scold Eddie, too, or just me?” 

Stan asks, “In the long term is this gonna make things better or worse?” 

“Stan, seriously, fuck off. Like, when have I ever cared about the long term? I don’t fucking care about the long term.” Richie sighs. “I’m sorry. I know it might be stupid or impulsive or self-destructive, but…” Richie trails off, not sure where he was going with that. _But I don’t care? But I need this? But I love him?_ “Have a good rest of your night,” he says to both of them. “I’ll see you tomorrow before you leave town, alright?”

They take a cab back to the hotel—the bus isn’t leaving for another hour—and they spend the first five minutes or so in tense silence, knees knocking together whenever the car turns a corner. 

“Can we be honest now?” Richie asks him, his voice low to float under the radar of the driver. “How much were you hoping this would happen?” 

“A lot,” Eddie admits. His hand is on Richie’s thigh, sliding up and to the inside. Richie lets his knees spread, holding his breath. “As soon as they announced their engagement, I… I mean, I knew I would see you again.” 

“Mm.” Richie hums and holds Eddie’s forearm as he moves his hand closer to Richie’s crotch. “See, I thought you would have been dreading seeing me?” 

“I was, but only because of how much I wanted to.” 

Back at the hotel, they end up alone in the elevator, and Richie steals a kiss as soon as the door closes. Eddie fists his hands in Richie’s hair, arching against him; Richie shoves him up against the wall. It’s so familiar, and it only takes a second to fall into their old rhythm. Eddie slips him his tongue and he tastes the same, and Richie breathes against him, not pulling back until the elevator dings and the doors open.

In Eddie’s room, they stumble inside, kicking off shoes, wrestling off ties and coats, and unbuttoning shirts. Before things go too far, Richie nuzzles against Eddie’s ear and asks him, “What do you want? Any special requests? Richie Tozier, one night only?” 

“I want you to fuck me,” Eddie says, and it punches the air out of him. 

Eddie takes advantage of Richie’s momentary stupor to spin around and grab his toiletry bag from the dresser. He pulls out a couple condoms and lube and turns back toward Richie, still breathing heavy. 

Richie stares. “So you were _really_ hoping this would happen.”

Later, on the bed, Eddie lies on his back under Richie, his legs bent and hands scraping down Richie’s back. Richie knows he doesn’t have a chance in hell of lasting very long; as soon as he got inside Eddie, he lost any restraint he still possessed. Richie pants against the crook of his neck and fucks him, and it’s sloppy and desperate, but Eddie is breathing just as hard beneath him. Eddie _wants_ this; he wants Richie. Back in New York, he packed his bag with condoms and he was thinking about this, Richie fucking him. 

Richie is definitely not going to last very long. He gets his hands under Eddie’s ass and angles him so he can go deeper. “I missed this, I missed fucking you,” Richie says. “Don’t even wanna do this with other people anymore, you ruined me. You’re it for me.” 

“Richie, god. _Fuck_.” 

“Yeah, yeah, Eddie, do you think about this?” 

“ _Yeah_.” Eddie huffs, small punched-out sounds that Richie dreams about. “All the— _fuck_ —all the time. Think about you.” 

Richie is so sweaty it’s either gross or comical, his chest slipping against Eddie’s and it runs in his eyes, but he’s entirely un-self-conscious right now. All he’s aware of is Eddie, Eddie’s body; with each thrust, Eddie’s dick slaps against his stomach, and soon he closes his own fist around it to jerk himself off. 

“Richie, I’m close.” 

“Good, I can hold out a little longer.” Richie gets a fresh grip on Eddie’s thighs and leans back for leverage. He plants one foot on the floor and snaps his hips forward, building up a punishing pace. 

A minute later, when the fatigue catches up with him and when Eddie isn’t yet mewling his orgasm build-up noises, Richie says, his voice strained, “I thought you were close, you fucking liar.” 

“I’m almost there,” Eddie insists, but he doesn’t sound it. His free hand scrabbles against Richie’s back and down to his ass, nails digging in. “Fuck me.” 

“I literally am fucking you, what do you want from me?” Eyes screwed shut, Richie holds on as long as he can before his pace becomes erratic, short shallow thrusts. He buries himself into Eddie, falling forward to pant against his shoulder. “Sorry,” he mutters as he comes down. 

Eddie pets his hair. He’s stopped jerking himself off, his arm trapped under the weight of Richie’s body. 

“I wanted you to come while I was fucking you.” Richie sits up and slides out; Eddie winces, clenches more than a little, which makes Richie swear. “Next best thing, then.” 

He takes the base of Eddie’s dick in hand and swallows him down. Eddie’s back arches off the mattress and his knees buck against Richie’s chest; Richie hums around him to say, _Yes, I know. I know that feels good_. With his other hand, Richie slips two fingers into him, then, finding him slick and loose, three. 

Now, finally, Eddie starts making those telltale involuntary noises, quick breaths and whines. He clutches Richie’s hair and squirms under him; Richie doesn’t bob his head, just keeps him deep inside, jaw slack, throat fluttering, eyes pricking. Richie holds his hips down but not firmly enough because Eddie bucks up in the second before he comes. Richie keeps sucking through each pulse, swallowing, and working his tongue around his cock, until Eddie’s whimpers border on pain. He pulls hard on Richie’s hair. 

“No more,” he chokes. Richie pulls off, with a languid swirl of his tongue. Eddie’s chest is heaving, his head thrown back. “God, I missed you so much,” Eddie gasps, covering his face with his hands. “I love you so much.” 

Richie hums and pats his thigh. “Let’s get you cleaned up before you pass out, okay?” 

In the shower, Eddie stands in front of him, on his jelly legs, leaning back against Richie. Richie runs soapy hands over his body and kisses the back of his neck and his shoulders. They don’t speak beyond a few murmured questions and affirmative hums. 

Back in bed, Eddie lays flat on his back and Richie, always the sleep octopus, throws an arm and a leg over him, curled up into his neck. Damp hair leaves wet spots on the pillows and their skin is fresh and cool.

“When I get home,” Eddie says, “I’m going to file for divorce. It’s where we’re going anyway, right? Just bite the bullet. Charlie already tells her friends we’re divorced. Half the kids in their school have divorced parents. Hell, I only had one parent growing up and it wasn’t ideal, but I’m fucking fine.” 

“Are you?” Richie says with a smile. 

“Shut up,” Eddie says. He rubs his thumb against Richie’s arm, holding it in place across his chest. “They’ll be fine. We’ll figure it out with the kids and I’ll figure out my finances, and it’ll be fine. Even if I get hit pretty hard, it’ll be fine. There’ll be some pain, but it needs to happen.” 

“If that’s what you want,” Richie says carefully. 

Eddie bends his neck to kiss the top of Richie’s head. Then he turns onto his side and Richie nestles in against his back, arm slung over his waist. 

Maybe it’s the same shit that Eddie’s said all along; meaningless platitudes that he’ll walk back in the harsh light of day. But as he falls asleep, Richie tells himself: _Trust it. Trust it._ He breathes in the back of Eddie’s neck, hotel shampoo and his own scent, not quite washed away, and he tries to trust him. 

—

In the morning, Eddie wakes up to a hand ruffling his hair. He opens his eyes to see Richie, propped up on an elbow next to him. “Good morning,” Richie says, way too chipper. “Ready to go and face reality?” 

Eddie moans and turns his face into the pillow. “Mm. No. Never.” 

Richie laughs and flops down half on top of him, heavy and warm. He plants a wet kiss below his ear. “When’s your flight?” 

“Um. I think. Three… something. Like, three-thirty.” 

“Mm.” Richie keeps wriggling against him, obviously too awake to drift back to sleep now. “Mine’s earlier. Like, one. I think everyone is getting breakfast. Do you need another shower or are you good to go? I’m gonna stop by my room for some clothes but I think I can wrangle my hair into shape.” 

Eddie says, “Last night was pretty intense.” 

At that, Richie stops moving. He’s quiet for a long second. “I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean. Did you?” 

“No. Maybe.” Eddie sighs and Richie rolls off of him. Eddie rakes his hands over his eyes. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I meant it, but I mean– I can’t delude myself into thinking Myra would take this well. Like, it’s going to be hell, and I’m not going to come out of this unscathed, you know? I’ve been handing her divorce ammunition for years. I mean–” Eddie gestures between the two of them as an example, laughing bitterly. “I think she suspects it. She hasn’t come out and _asked_ me, but…” 

“Okay, so don’t,” Richie says, not kindly. “Wait until your kids are older. Whatever you want.” 

“Richie… I’m sorry.” Eddie looks at him; Richie is fiddling with the hem of the sheet, rubbing it between his fingers. The worst part is he doesn’t look surprised. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m struggling a lot with this, but I know what I need to do. I’m going to do it, but just… you don’t owe me anything when I do, okay? I should do this for myself.”

“I agree,” Richie says quietly. “I want that for you. I don’t want you to blow up your life for me. I’ll be here.” 

“Okay.” Eddie takes his hand and brings it to his mouth. He brushes his lips against his knuckles. “So, I’m going to go back home. You’re going to go back home. I’m going to put on my big boy pants and divorce my wife. You’re going to pitch this show with Bill and become a hotshot television producer.” 

“And _break_ ,” says Richie. He springs out of bed and starts picking up littered clothing from the floor. 

Eddie watches him, a fond smile growing on his face. “And… No matter what happens– Can we… can we talk again? I really miss talking to you.”

Richie pauses and looks at him, in an adorable state of half-dress, his undershirt hanging around his neck. “Yeah. We can talk again. I’m sorry I… I’m sorry.” 

“No, it’s okay,” Eddie says. Richie kneels on the end of the bed as he puts his arms through the shirt. “I’m glad you got space. I’m glad you told me what you needed.”

Richie, smiling, crawls toward him on his hands. “I’ll see you at breakfast?” 

“Yeah.”

Richie pecks his lips and then jumps out of bed. He dresses enough to sneak down the hallway to his own room, and slips out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a sincere and desperate plea to drop title ideas for Richie and Bill’s show in the comments.
> 
> (and thank you to pals in the reddie bigbang server who already helped brainstorm ideas, and i’m sorry for making fun of all of your contributions in this chapter but I did warn you that I would do that)
> 
> ETA: I've now written this short spin-off fic based off this chapter if you want to read the angst-redux, infidelity 2: electric boogaloo of my most self-indulgent dreams: <https://archiveofourown.org/works/27534193>


	7. Chapter 7

The weekend after the wedding, Eddie has the kids. On Saturday, he takes them to the zoo. Charlie talks his ear off about ‘symbiotic relationships’ between animal species, and Frank keeps disappearing for a few seconds at a time only to turn up right beside him, at the exact moment that his stomach drops with dread. 

“Hey, stop doing that,” he says to Frank.

“Doing what?”

“You’re wandering off. Just stick with us. It’s busy.”

“I am,” Frank insists. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Yeah, Dad, he’s not wandering off. He’s been following us the whole time.”

“Oh.” Eddie looks down at Frank, who stares back at him. (Your honor, he can’t even keep track of whether or not he’s keeping track of his kids. He’s distracted, irresponsible… His headspace is ninety-percent mental custody battles these days.) “Sorry. You’re so quiet. What do you guys want? Dippin’ Dots?” 

They get Dippin’ Dots and sit around a picnic table in the sun. Charlie holds out one arm very still in an attempt to get one of the curious sparrows to land on her hand. It doesn’t work but she keeps at it for ten minutes, switching arms periodically. Eddie’s kids are ten and seven now, and starting to really grow into themselves. They’re like little adults and sometimes Eddie is struck with a terrifying feeling in the middle of the night, especially when they’re sleeping under the roof of his new place, that he doesn’t _know them at all_. 

“Hey, guys. Can I ask you something?” Eddie waits for their nods and affirmative noises. “What do you think about all of this? Me living away from you and your mom? Do you like it? Or… I mean, what do you think about it? It’s okay if you don’t like it.” 

“I dunno.” Charlie’s attention is still fixed on the sparrows, pecking around on the ground in front of her. 

“Well, do you wish that I was still at home?”

“I dunno,” she says again. “I guess it doesn’t seem that different sometimes. Like, we probably spend the same amount of time with you now as before.” 

Eddie frowns. “Do you wish I was around more? Or that I used to be around more? I know I worked a lot, before. I still do.” 

“Um, I dunno,” she says again. 

Eddie laughs, trying to keep it light but that one stung. “Okay. Thoughts, Frank? Anything to contribute?”

He glances up from his melting Dippin’ Dots soup, a grayish sludge now. “Yeah, I guess our weekends with you are pretty fun.” 

“Yeah, I think, um.” Charlie tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “On your weekends, we’re always doing _a lot_. You know? Like, zoo, park, dinner, movie. And sometimes I wanna just hang out at home, or like, go to a friend’s house, you know? So we could just have no plans sometimes.” 

Eddie nods. He has been desperately overbooking them for the past few months, trying to make the most of every hour of their limited time together. “Yeah, that’s– a good point. We’ll take it easy tomorrow, okay? Stay in.” 

On Sunday evening, he drops the kids back at home. They hop out of the car, carrying their overnight bags, and run for the door. Myra steps out onto the driveway and waves hello, as the kids rush past her. 

“Hey,” Eddie calls after them, opening his door. “Bye? Can I have a hug or something?” 

They both run back to dutifully hug him goodbye. Charlie says, “Bye, Dad.” Frank says, “I’ll see you in two weeks.” 

“I’ll see you… yeah. I’ll probably see you sooner than that. Have a good week. Love you.” 

It always breaks his heart a little. But they’re fine. It’s just _his_ heart. And that’s the kind of collateral damage he can live with. 

When the kids have disappeared inside the house, Eddie asks Myra, “Do you need any help this week?”

“Yeah, Wednesday, if you could?”

“Of course. Yeah, I’ll leave work early. I’ll be here by, what, three?”

“Yeah, thanks so much.” She gestures back toward the door. “I was just going to reheat–”

“Thanks, but I ate with the kids already. But actually– can we talk for a second?” 

“Yeah, why don’t you come inside?”

“I’d rather talk out here. It’ll be quick.” Then, contradicting his promise of brevity, he reaches inside the car to kill the engine. Myra takes a couple steps closer, in her slippers on the driveway, arms folded across her chest. Eddie takes a deep breath. “So. This separation has been working really well for me and I’m ready to take the next step and, you know, make it permanent. Whether that’s divorce or legal separation, we can look at those options together, but. Yeah. That’s where I’m at.”

Myra’s eyebrows knit together. She doesn’t say anything for a moment and her facial expression doesn’t reveal much. Eddie almost repeats himself, says, _Hey, I just said I want a divorce. Thoughts?_

Then she opens her mouth, takes a breath, and says, “Eddie, I– I’m just. I guess I’m surprised.”

He blinks. “You’re surprised? Myra, we haven’t been living together for a year. I’m sorry, but what did you think was going on?”

“I thoughts things were better between us.”

“Yeah, because we’re not living together, right? That’s why things have been better. That’s not exactly a good sign.” 

“Maybe we just needed some time apart?”

Eddie shakes his head. He can’t keep arguing this point; there’s nowhere to go but in circles. “I’m sorry, no, I’m not… I’m not negotiating, I’m telling. I have a lawyer. This is really– I’m just giving you a heads-up, yeah? And you know, I hope you come to the table, I wanna talk about this, but if not… I mean, if not, then my lawyer will be in touch.” He pauses for only a second. “Also, um. I’m gay.”

(Eddie _is_ gay. He knows that much at least. He lives alone now and he’s spent the past year vigorously jerking off to gay porn, like a fucking teenager. He thinks maybe he understands his former ambivalence to porn now. More of an ambivalence toward women’s bodies. Huh. Better to have that realization late than never.)

Eddie planned to tell her today, and he anticipated one of three responses. The first possibility: confusion or denial. He’s ready to further explain himself if needed, but it would get dicey. He’d rather not go into the details of his sexual self-exploration with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. The second possibility: understanding or relief. A part of him can’t imagine this is coming as a huge surprise to her. The best case scenario is that it will answer some questions and doubts that she’s carried for a long time. And if he were in her situation, wouldn’t he take comfort in knowing that ‘it’s not you, it’s me’? The certainty that it can’t be worked out between them no matter what? He thinks so.

The third possibility is the one he gets. Myra narrows her eyes and asks, “Did you cheat on me with Richie?” 

Eddie’s not an idiot. He could see this question coming a mile away. So, very calmly, his eyebrows assuming their most earnest position, he says, “Myra, I’m not gonna lie to you. My friendship with Richie was not strictly platonic. I _was_ attracted to him, and I developed feelings for him, and that partially led me to realize my sexuality. But,” he says, “I never cheated on you.”

She nods, looking a little deflated. She averts her eyes to stare at the ground and sniffs once, rubs her nose. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, meaning it. “I know I’ve put you through a lot. And I know I should have told you sooner.”

“Yeah, well.” She takes a couple steps away, backing up toward the garage. “I’ll get a lawyer and be in touch. By the end of the week.” 

He nods, taking care to not appear too eager. “Yes. Yes, that’s great. This is going to be the best thing for us.”

Eddie gets back in his car and drives the short distance home. He taps his hands on the wheel, dispelling some nervous energy, but overall he feels: good. Confident that this is going to be squared away quickly and favorably. 

Three weeks later, Eddie gets home late. It’s a Thursday night and he was at his lawyer’s office after work, and he hasn’t stopped smiling since he left. Now, he kicks off his shoes and goes straight to the kitchen to pull his mostly-untouched bottle of bourbon from the cabinet above the fridge.

He’s not much of a whiskey guy. He likes wine. He likes cocktails, but usually light ones, with vodka or gin. But, stupidly, bourbon makes him think of Richie, so he likes to have it on hand. He pours some over ice, takes a sip and shudders. Surrendering, he finds lemon juice in the fridge and simple syrup in the cabinet. Mixes it up. Takes a sip. Slightly better. 

Drink in hand, Eddie makes his way to the couch and collapses against the leather cushions. He throws his feet up on the coffee table and takes another long sip. He’s bursting with energy, heart hammering and mind racing—the alcohol hasn’t begun to temper it yet—and he knows he needs to tell someone. Mentally, he runs through his options of confidants. He could tell all the Losers. But they might not strike the tone that he wants right now. He’s not in the mood for any somber sympathy to drag him back to reality. All he wants is someone to have a drink with him, talk shit, celebrate. Nuance is for tomorrow. Tonight he wants to feel the heady weightlessness in his chest and ride it as far as it will take him.

It’s shortly after nine. So it’s only six in L.A. That’s way too early. 

But he calls Richie anyway. 

Richie answers after a few rings. “Hey, Eddie, what’s up?”

They don’t really call each other out of the blue anymore, so Richie sounds a bit nervous. In the few weeks since the wedding, they’ve texted here and there. Eddie told him when he initiated the split with Myra, but he hasn’t updated him much since then. 

“Hey, Richie. Um. Is now a good time?”

“Sure, yeah, is everything okay?” He sounds distracted; there’s some muffled noise in the background, indistinct voices.

“Everything’s fine, sorry. I probably should have just texted you.”

“No, it’s all good, let me just–” More muffled sounds, a change of location. “Okay, I’m good. What’s up?”

“I signed the papers.” Eddie pauses for a half-second and Richie is quiet. “Tonight. We both signed. We are officially legally separated.” He pauses again for only a moment before the flood of words continues, “The only reason we did that instead of a divorce is insurance, basically, my policy is really good and she would get kicked off if we got divorced and, you know, I’m not heartless. Contrary to popular belief… It’s transitional, until she can get her feet under her, but it’s really functionally the same as a divorce. Terms can get carried over and everything. Like, besides the insurance thing and the fact that neither of us can get married to someone else until we’re actually divorced but, you know, that’s not a consideration at the moment– oh, and we can file our taxes jointly, still– but anyway. We hammered out child support and alimony and we’re carrying on with our same arrangement with the kids—every other weekend for me—but now we have it in writing. It all went really well. Like, surprisingly easy. Maybe she finally just wanted to get rid of me? But I also, I mean, I made some pretty fucking generous concessions. She even asked–” he chuckles, “She asked about dating, if it was okay, to date again. Sort of took me by surprise that she brought it up. But yes, it’s fine for us both to see other people, she just wanted us to tell each other if we got into anything serious, but… Yeah.”

As Richie still doesn’t say anything, Eddie’s feeling of invincibility slips a little. He blurts: “I know I– I wasn’t planning on calling you right away and telling you, I wanted to let it settle for a while, because I’m not just doing this for you, and like I said, you don’t owe me anything, but Richie, I’m just so fucking happy and I wanted to tell you and I love you. I fucking love you, and I want to do it all, you know?”

Richie, finally, laughs. It’s happy and breathless, and he says, “Eddie, that’s– Sorry, I’m processing, that was a lot. I’m, like, standing out on the street by this restaurant, I was just–”

“Oh, oh my god, I’m sorry. I just dumped all of that on you.”

“No, no, it’s good, I was just about to sit down with Bill and this other guy for dinner and–”

“We can talk later? I’m sorry. Go finish dinner and give me a call later, I’ll be up–” 

“No, no, no,” Richie says, laughing. “Take a breath. This is fine. Um. I don’t have prepared words. You always seem to have a script…”

Eddie laughs. “No script, I just word-vomit.” 

“Um, wow. Okay. It’s sinking in. I’m really fucking happy, too.”

Eddie can hear it in Richie’s voice and he smiles, his cheek pressing into his phone. 

“It’s like– Okay. You’re… a single man now.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “I have been for almost two whole hours.”

“How’s it feel?”

“Feels good,” Eddie says, his smile softening. “But… I don’t want to be single, Richie. Cards on the table: I want to be with you. For real. I don’t need any more time. We don’t need to– to hide.” He pauses and adds quickly, “I mean, I’m still not gonna tell Myra or my kids for a little while longer, I need to let that settle but…” 

Richie laughs. “Okay. We don’t have to hide except from your wife and family. I know that drill.” 

“Ex-wife,” Eddie corrects.

“You’re separated, not divorced.”

“It’s _functionally the same_ , Richie,” Eddie snaps, slipping into his high-pitched, irritation-voice that only Richie can bring out in him. “It’s all above-board now. We can both see other people. It’s not– it’s not _cheating_ anymore. Like, legally, morally, it’s all fine.”

“Hm. What if that ruins it for me? I can only get it up for an ethical dilemma.” 

Eddie laughs. “I might have a Pavlovian response to guilt, too. Aren’t we fucked up?”

“Okay, okay, Eddie,” Richie says, more serious than he was a second ago. “I’m right here with you. I want to be. I want it all. So, um. Are you staying in New York?” 

Eddie’s throat tightens. “Well, yeah, I mean. My family…”

“No, no, I know,” Richie says quickly. “That’s fine, that’s what I expected. So… like, long-distance? Are we doing this or what?”

Eddie smiles, relieved, chest swelling. “I think so. I want to.”

“Great.” Richie’s voice is so warm through the phone, Eddie wants to close his eyes and bask in it. “I think we’re, uh. What do people say? We’re an item?” 

Eddie chuckles. “God, I want to see you, what are you doing this weekend? I don’t have the kids, I could fly out there–” As he rambles, he pulls his phone from his ear and starts looking for flights to L.A. “Flights for tomorrow are really fucking expensive, you know, but that’s fine, I’ll just–”

“Wait, Eddie,” Richie laughs. “Don’t buy a plane ticket. I’m– I think I have some shit to do this weekend, I have work obligations. Uh. So, like, in two weeks? That would be your next availability? I’ll come to you, okay? No problem.”

Eddie puts his phone back to his ear, laughing a little at himself. “Yeah, okay. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Yeah. I miss you.”

“I miss you all the time. Two weeks… That’s so far away.” (Eddie thinks the booze is kicking in. He sounds whiny to his own ears.)

“We’ll talk, we’ll get through it.” Richie takes a breath. “Well, I should–”

“Oh, yeah, totally, go have dinner.” Eddie waves his hand through the air, as if Richie can see him. “Enjoy. I’m sorry I held you up.” 

“No worries. I could– Can I call you later? In probably two hours? Is that too late?” 

“No, not at all. I’m way too wired to go to sleep now, I’m gonna be up all night.” They both chuckle. “Bye. I’ll talk to you later. Um. I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Richie says. It seems to roll off his tongue so easily, but it sounds perfectly sincere. “Bye.” 

Two weeks later, on a Friday, Eddie drives to the airport after work. He received a series of status updates from Richie earlier that morning: the first sent at 5am in L.A. when he woke up; then shortly before 7am when he got to the airport; then 8am when he boarded the plane. Then radio silence for the five and a half hour flight. When his _TOUCHDOWN_ text arrives it’s nearly 5pm local time. It’s a full day of travel and it’s not cheap, and Richie has to turn around and do the same thing on Sunday. Eddie feels slightly guilty about it, but Richie has been nothing but chipper.

Anyway, flights from LAX to JFK and back again are going to be a big part of their lives for the foreseeable future, so he tries to shake the gnawing feeling that Richie shouldn’t go to this much trouble for him. He tries to just relax and enjoy the fact that they’re going to spend two nights and the better part of two days together. 

Besides, if he thinks about it, Richie once _drove_ clear across the country to see Eddie. So maybe the flight is a step up. 

With that thought in his mind and a smile on his face, Eddie pulls up at the curb in the pick-up zone and ignores the high-vis-vested attendant who urges him to keep rolling. (What’s even the _point_ of a pick-up zone if you can’t stop to pick someone up?) 

He spots Richie immediately. He’s standing to the side of the parted, automatic doors, his trusty duffel bag on his shoulder. His neck is bent severely as he looks down at his phone in his hands. He wears jeans and a t shirt, hoodie tied around his hips. 

Eddie calls out his open passenger window, “Hey, Rich!” 

Richie looks up and his face melts into a grin. He hurries toward the car. As soon as he’s inside, Eddie caves to the pressure and pulls back into the lane of traffic, continuing the airport loop toward the exit.

“Hey!” Richie says brightly, adjusting his bag on his lap. He leaves the window rolled down—it’s a pleasant, sunny day—and rests his arm with his bent elbow hanging out. 

“How was your flight?” Eddie glances over at him more than is strictly safe since he’s driving. It seems neither of them can stop smiling. “Get your work done?”

“Eh.” Richie waggles a hand. “I re-downloaded Candy Crush… If that counts.”

“Do you need some time tonight or tomorrow to finish anything? I can leave you alone for a bit.” 

“No, I wouldn’t want _that_ ,” Richie says, so over-the-top flirty that Eddie has no choice but to roll his eyes. As if he’s not so pent-up that he’s about to jump out of his skin. “I’ll just wrap it up on my flight home. No biggie.” 

Eddie parks in the surface lot behind his apartment building. It’s a pain in the ass not having a garage anymore, especially with his tank of a car that traps heat like a wool sweater in the summer and requires a tricep workout to scrape ice in the winter. His building is a solid, boxy brick-faced thing. The only neighbors he’s met so far are the smokers who congregate around the back door; and it’s been over a year, so it’s too late to start making many more inroads. His unit is a third-floor walk-up, so he gives Richie a brief warning and then leads the way. 

While Eddie unlocks the door to his apartment, Richie, quite charmingly, tries to disguise the fact that he’s winded. 

“Alright,” Eddie says as they step inside. “This is me.” 

They kick off their shoes by the door and Eddie gives him the quick tour: the kitchen and living area, not very large but accomplishing their purpose with an economic use of space; the second bedroom with twin beds shoved against opposite walls, fully in kid-mode; and Eddie’s bedroom, devoid of much personality. That’s the last stop on the tour. Richie tosses his duffel bag onto the foot of Eddie’s bed. Eddie frowns slightly about airport germs on his sheets, but… Whatever. He looks at Richie. 

Richie looks back at him, his hair ruffled, hands on his hips. His body curves like a question mark, back swayed out.

Eddie says, “So, dinner?” and leads him out of the bedroom before he acts on the impulse to _never_ leave the bedroom again. “I have a bunch of, like, sad single dad food. My freezer is very well stocked. Or we should probably just order something. There’s an Indian place just around the block, I can go pick it up while you take a shower.”

Richie blinks. “A shower?” 

“Yeah, you were just on a plane and in… airports,” Eddie says. “Do you wanna take a shower?” 

“Um. Do you want me to take a shower?” 

“I mean. No, that’s– It’s up to you.” 

“I can take a shower if you want me to.” Richie only looks fifty-percent amused. He looks fifty-percent dead serious. 

Eddie sighs. “No, sorry, I’m being weird. This feels like a lot of pressure.” 

Eddie doesn’t look at his face as Richie steps in close and collects him in his arms. _Oh, right_. They hadn’t hugged hello yet, hadn’t really touched. Eddie exhales, tension ebbing. Richie rubs his back. “No pressure, okay? I’m easy to please. And I’m nervous, too. Stupid, right? After everything?” 

Eddie mumbles against Richie’s cotton t-shirt, “I really don’t want to fuck this up, Richie.” 

“Then don’t.” Richie claps his hands to his shoulders, putting some space between them. “I am going to take that shower. It sounds lovely. Especially knowing that you’ll have food for me when I’m done.”

They eat dinner on the couch, while Richie sits in his pajamas, wet hair dripping onto his neck. When they’re done, they find a stupid movie to watch. As it plays, Richie slides down on the cushions until he ends up with his head resting on Eddie’s chest. Eddie wraps his arms around him and noses into his damp hair—he smells like Eddie’s shampoo—and chuckles at Richie’s running commentary on the movie. When it’s over, neither want to move so they lay slumped on the couch for another few minutes of silence.

Eddie sighs. “Bed time?”

“Yeah, but I’m actually kinda exhausted. So, yeah, just sleep.” Richie punctuates it with a huge yawn. 

A few minutes later, they both crawl into bed; Eddie mentions that he prefers the left side and Richie rolls out of his way. “Hmm,” Eddie hums, curling up beside him. “We haven’t slept together and not had sex. This is nice.”

“That sounds really sarcastic, Eds.” 

Eddie laughs. “No, I’m serious.” He nestles in closer, one arm around Richie’s middle. 

“And we have,” Richie says. “When we were kids. Sleepovers.” 

“Oh, right,” Eddie says, surprised and embarrassed that he forgot. 

His mom became much stricter about sleepovers when he got older, but there was a good year when he was ten or eleven that he was allowed to sleep over at Bill’s house sometimes or Richie’s, as long as his mom felt confident that she could call their parents and check in. Eddie remembers one of these nights now: in Bill’s basement, sharing an air mattress with Richie. Bill’s parents turned off the light and told them to go to bed, but they stayed up, whispering and laughing and hushing each other. Bill slept on the couch next to them, but Eddie and Richie were under the same blanket, warm and close, jostling one another with their every move. 

He remembers feeling: exhilarated. In a way that he can’t quite understand now. Nothing exciting was happening, but his heart was racing and he couldn’t stop laughing because all he wanted was to be with his friends. 

It was a nice feeling. He’s glad he got to experience that in his childhood, even briefly, even so quickly forgotten. And he’s glad he remembers it now. 

Now, Eddie nestles his nose into Richie’s shoulder and breathes him in. To get a whiff of his own soap layered over Richie’s scent. “I’m really happy you’re here.” 

—

In September, Bev flies in to be Richie’s date to the Emmys. Richie doesn’t _need_ a date, but he’s going with Bill and Audra and he’d rather not go solo and there are a few reasons why he can’t take Eddie, so. Solution: he brings his famous, married female friend and they’ll take cute dumb (obviously platonic) red carpet shots together. 

He floated the idea to Bev as a joke but of course she bought a plane ticket and asked to stay at his house and asked him what he’s wearing. And that was that.

It turned out, what Richie was planning to wear wasn’t good enough, so Bev dressed him, too. 

That’s how they end up arm-in-arm on the red carpet in the late-afternoon sun, trailing Bill and Audra and periodically posing for a photo. They take a few normal ones, but soon Richie convinces Bev to pose standing behind him, with her arms around his waist, and poking her head over his shoulder. It’s a prom pose, basically. It’s adorable. 

Bill and Audra get stopped for a few interviews along the way, so Bev and Richie meander and chat. Richie doesn’t _love_ networking, and he really doesn’t enjoy speaking to the press, so he’s content to cling to Bev and appear to have important, uninterruptible conversations with her. 

“Ben’s in, um… Stockholm still?” Richie asks. 

“Yeah. I hear it’s going really well. He thinks they’re gonna get it.” 

‘It’ is the bid to design a new museum. “That’s great,” Richie says, while he mentally workshops a ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ joke. He doesn’t come up with anything decent by the time Bev interrupts him.

“How’s Eddie?” 

He looks at Bev; she puts on her best innocent smile. He and Eddie are keeping things private-but-not-secret for the time being. When Eddie passed on the message about his separation to the rest of the Losers, Bev texted Richie for details immediately. So she knows everything. 

Richie smiles back at her. “He’s good. We’re good.”

“Is long-distance hard?” she asks. “Just these past few weeks with Ben have been tough, and with the time difference…” 

“Well, it’s a lot better than living in his house with his wife and kids…”

Bev laughs, scandalized. “I still can’t fucking believe you guys.” 

“No, for real, it’s working great. We talk on the phone every day. I fly out to New York every other week. Our relationship has a huge fucking carbon footprint, but you know. Whatever. I do enough for the… for the good of the… Well. I haven’t _actively_ harmed the… Never mind.” Richie shakes his head, refocuses, as Bev chuckles. “I think we got through our phase of being obsessed with each other and making rash, impulsive decisions–” 

“Was that a phase?” 

“–and now it feels really mature and adult. And I’m, like, stupid-happy. Most of the time.” 

She smiles again, sincerely, and squeezes his arm. “That’s great, Richie. I’m really happy for both of you.”

“Thanks.” 

“Does he ever come out here?”

“He hasn’t yet. It just works better most of the time for me to fly out since I can take Fridays off, or I can work on the plane. It’s a long trip. Twice a month. Five and a half hour flights. The time-change back and forth. Yeah, I’m exhausted. But happy. But exhausted.” He flashes a smile at her, flaring his eyelids in a way that doesn’t make him look particularly sane—but does make her laugh. Which was the goal. 

“Hey, Richie!” Bill calls then, flagging him down. A few paces away, he’s talking to a microphone-wielding reporter in front of a camera. 

“Oh boy,” Richie mutters, as Bev gives his back a parting pat.

“Hey, Rich, this is, uh–”

“Jessica,” the reporter says, flashing a smile. “With E! News.” She wears a tight blue dress, hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders. 

“Hi, Jessica with E! News,” Richie says, slinging an arm around Bill’s shoulder.

“She wants to talk about our show.” 

Richie looks at him. “Do we have a show?” 

“I think we might have a show.” 

Jessica laughs like she’s being paid to, which she is. “So, can I just say, I was so excited to hear about the two of you working together. Bringing together one great mind for horror and one for comedy–”

They both chuckle with humility.

“–but I had no idea that the two of you grew up together.”

“Oh, yeah,” Richie says, playfully jostling Bill’s shoulder. “I’ve known this one for a long time.”

“What’s it like working with a childhood friend?” 

Bill answers, as he continues to patiently let Richie manhandle him, “Well, it’s nice. There’s a level of comfort here– obviously.” He laughs. “We have a sh-shorthand, a set of shared references that makes it really easy for us to communicate. But I’m not sure if anyone else can understand us half the time.” 

“What can you tell us about the series?”

“I’m afraid not much more than you already know,” Bill says, his tone apologetic and a bit coy. “We’re developing it for Netflix. It’s horror-comedy.”

“Say more about tying these two genres together. How do you strike that balance?” 

“I think it comes naturally to us.” Bill glances up at Richie to consult. 

“Yeah, I think it’s like…” Richie starts, then pauses to formulate his thought. He’s not half as good at this as Bill. “It’s like, you know if you get surprised or startled by something and then you realize it’s not a threat and you laugh? And it’s just this release of tension? I think that’s the moment we want to live in.”

Richie lives alone again. His roommates stuck around for a little more than a year, before they started to move on. Len first, then Karen and Caleb two months later. He misses it sometimes; now he has to leave the house or call someone to get attention, whereas before he could just wander into the kitchen and unload a rambling story about his experience at the drive-through ATM that morning. But he’s also glad to have his space again. Richie is, actually, kind of curmudgeonly when he’s tired and they were young and loud and always had people over. Maybe they got tired of him opening his bedroom door at 11pm to yell, _Shut the fuck up!_

But they got on alright. And they’ve stayed in touch. And Richie definitely based the three millennial roommates in (working title) ‘Ghostmates’ on them. And they are, after all, actors. Or at least they keep insisting to be. So that’s why, when Richie and Bill started pitching the show earlier that month, he reached out to them via the ‘Roomies’ group chat to feel out whether they’d be interested. 

Of course, they were _extremely_ interested and he hasn’t heard the end of it since. 

Eventually, he set up a meeting with Bill; he agreed that the three of them had good chemistry and he liked them for the characters. They weren’t sure how far their influence would go, but Bill and Richie promised to vouch for them if the show got picked up. 

The show did get picked up. One of the producers, Nico, liked the idea of combining Bill and Richie’s cumulative name recognition with a cast of newcomers. 

At this point, they’re still developing and hiring and scouting and writing. It’s a lot of meetings. So in mid-October, when Richie looks at his week ahead and realizes it’s nothing but conference calls, he decides to spend the week in New York instead. 

That’s how he ends up sprawled out on Eddie’s couch on a Thursday evening, feet in his lap. They’re both half-focused on their phones and the TV hums in the background; their dirty dishes from dinner sit on the coffee table, not yet cleared away. 

It’s been a nice week. Every morning when Eddie wakes up way too early, Richie is gently roused from sleep, just enough to lift his head and murmur, “Have a good day.” Then he rolls over and sleeps for a few more hours. His workday starts later since he spends all day communicating with west coast people. Eddie keeps his pantry stocked with Richie’s preferred coffee brand, and Richie has started leaving some of his clothes and toiletries behind, packing lighter on each trip. He’s also long-since been entrusted the spare keys to Eddie’s apartment, and he keeps them on his keychain, carrying them with him even when he’s home in L.A. It’s really nice. The simple things like opening the cabinet and seeing a fresh bag of his favorite coffee, or hanging up his shirts next to Eddie’s in the closet, never fail to put a smile on his face. Richie is, no surprise to anyone, a total sap. But he has a sneaking suspicion that Eddie is, too. Maybe even worse than he is. 

Now, Richie stretches, arching his back and extending his feet farther across Eddie’s lap until they reach the armrest. Eddie adjusts his hands, settling back on his shins. He pats absently, a slow rhythm. 

Richie asks through a yawn, “What do you want to do this weekend?” 

Eddie thinks about it. “Not sure.” 

He often doesn’t want to do much of anything. ‘Staying in’ seems to be his go-to suggestion. For the first few visits, that felt romantic, staying in their little bubble, wrapped up in each other. But now Richie kinda wants to go to a restaurant or to a fucking museum or something. Anything. 

Richie thinks he knows _why_ he’s had a hard time getting Eddie out in public. It’s starting to bother him, but he’s not quite ready to broach the topic yet. 

And this weekend, it turns out he won’t have to. In another moment, Eddie’s phone starts ringing. 

He frowns at it. “It’s Myra, I better take this, sorry. Hello?” He listens, still patting Richie’s leg. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Um. Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine. I can… No, I can do that. Okay. Yeah, no problem. Take care. Bye.”

He hangs up and sighs heavily before looking at Richie with regret. 

“What’s up?” Richie asks cautiously. 

“I’m so sorry, Rich,” Eddie starts. “Myra’s uncle, he’s been sick, and apparently things just took a turn for the worst so she wants to visit this weekend. And she asked me if I could switch weekends…” He trails off, eyebrows raised.

Richie picks up on the meaning and sits up straighter, dragging his feet off Eddie’s lap. “Oh, yeah, yeah, for sure. So, you’ve got the kids now?” 

“Yeah, I’m gonna pick them up from school tomorrow afternoon.” Eddie frowns, his cheeks dimpled. “Which means that you have to…”

Richie nods. “No, yeah, yeah, no, I got it.” 

“I am _so_ sorry, Richie. I feel really shitty about it, but it’s, you know. A little earlier than I wanted to do this.”

“Yeah, no, that’s fine. I get it. You know, I’ll call up Christian, I’m sure he’ll buy me as many meals as I want. Set up some meetings. I’ll just pivot this into a work weekend. Then I can write off the hotel expense, so. Score.” Richie’s not trying to be a flippant asshole, not really… Maybe a little. 

Eddie’s frown deepens. “Richie, I am… so sorry. Seriously. Whatever I can do to make this up to you…”

Richie flashes a smile. “No, really, it’s fine.”

He settles back on the couch, feet in Eddie’s lap again. It _is_ fine. Richie understands. It’s going to be a while before Richie can be reintroduced to Eddie’s kids as his boyfriend. That’s going to be a weird conversation. And whatever goodwill still might exist between Richie and Myra will certainly evaporate. Richie knows he’s in no place to rush this. He needs to stand back and let Eddie decide the best approach. 

And at least he already spent the week with Eddie so he’s not missing out on an entire visit. He would have been pissed if he had to cancel his flight at the last minute. Or worse if he had just arrived. 

“Thank you,” Eddie says, squeezing his leg just above the knee. “I continue to be impossible to be with. Stop the fucking presses.” 

“Nah, dude, high-maintenance is my type, you know that.” 

“Well, you’re in luck.” 

Eddie keeps massaging his thigh with one hand as Richie realizes that now this is their last night together for two weeks. That thought plus the touch cause Richie’s mood to change pretty quickly. 

“Although…” Richie stretches his leg again, purposefully dragging against Eddie’s body. “Did you say something about making it up to me?” 

Eddie smiles, turning slowly toward Richie. His hand creeps higher on his thigh. “Yeah, I did. Any ideas?” 

One weekend in January, instead of Richie’s usual Friday flight to New York, he and Eddie both fly out to Atlanta—along with the rest of the Losers—to meet Isaac Daniel Uris. Stan and Mike tag-team airport pick-ups. Eddie’s flight arrived earlier in the day, around the same time as Ben and Bev; Stan picked up the three of them. Richie flies in with Bill, and Mike picks them up in the afternoon to drive them back to the Uris home. 

Their house is not huge, a three-bedroom bungalow, but certainly not cheap either. It’s located on a quiet street, old trees towering above. Mike parks on the street out front. It’s a bit chilly outside, and Richie is an idiot who doesn’t actually look at the weather, even though it’s only one-click away on his phone. He figured Atlanta in January would be like Florida, right? It’s not. And he flew from L.A. so he has nothing warm to wear. Mike mocked him the entire drive over from the airport. Bill lended him an extra sweatshirt because he’s a real friend. 

Inside the house, however, it’s warm and bright and Richie can hear laughter as soon as the door opens. Mike calls, “We’re back,” as he leads Bill and Richie through the house, like he owns the place. Everyone is congregated in the living room, sitting on the couch and floor, or leaning against the piano in one corner. 

At the moment, Tanya is holding Isaac, cradled on her chest and lightly rocking him. Everyone throws hushed greetings to Bill and Richie, for some reason addressing them in a baby-voice which Richie finds hilarious. Bev coos as she pulls him in for a hug, and he files it away for a stand-up act. Eddie rises from the couch to give them each a hug. He pets the back of Richie’s neck and murmurs, “Good to see you,” against his ear. 

They discussed it beforehand and decided that this get-together will double as Richie’s debutante ball. 

(Okay, okay, so Eddie didn’t think that joke was as funny as Richie did and the analogy doesn’t make sense but. They _are_ going to tell everyone that they’re… an item. Or whatever. They’re debuting as a _couple_ , as Richie insisted after Eddie googled what exactly a debutante ball is. They’re in the _south_. It makes sense!) 

It’s stupid because at least four of the seven people in the room already know—not including the infant—but Richie is still nervous. But Eddie is nervous, too, and Richie always feels a little more comfortable when he knows Eddie is nervous. They’re like an anxiety see-saw. 

Eddie returns to sit on the couch beside Tanya and Richie sits on the floor in front of him, leaning back against his legs, casually enough for now. 

“Hi Isaac,” Richie whispers to the dozing baby. He’s dark-haired, red-faced, pudgy fingers curled into Tanya’s shirt. Patty sits next to her, smiling, and looking quite relieved. 

“Everybody gets here and he conks out,” Patty says. “Who was up all night? Was it you, Isaac?”

“I think it was all of us,” Stan mutters, smiling. 

Isaac stirs a little, wide dark eyes open now. He briefly latches onto Richie’s outstretched finger with one hand. His grip is surprisingly strong and warm. 

Richie gasps, pretty sure he just experienced pure joy. “Oh my god. I might like babies. I think I like babies.” 

Eddie laughs softly behind him, leaning forward with one hand on Richie’s shoulder. 

Then Isaac starts fussing, twisting in Tanya’s arms; Patty takes him back and gently shushes him. Stan says, “I guess babies don’t like you, Rich.” 

Everyone chuckles, light and happy. Richie doesn’t reach for a snappy comeback… for now. He can let things slide sometimes. 

Bev asks, “How’s Audra, Bill?”

“She’s good. I think at least… a few of you already know this, but she’s filming in Toronto right now. Couldn’t get away.” 

They chat for a while about Audra's project; it's an exciting and serious role with a director she's wanted to work with for a while. A step up from spending her days drenched in fake blood, as Bill is the first to admit, grinning. Then Ben, evidently a fan of pulpy horror, says, “Hey, there's nothing wrong with fake blood.” That gets them talking about Bill and Richie's project for a few minutes, the Losers teasing them about capitalizing off their childhood trauma. Richie says, “I'm a comedian. That's the name of the game.”

“Big film industry here,” Stan says.

“Yeah, Hollywood of the South,” Mike says brightly. “I didn’t know that until recently.” 

“Yeah, you know where else has a big film industry?” Richie says. “L.A. I think they call it… Hollywood?”

Then Bill starts a conversation about tax incentives for film studios and it drags on for, like, twenty fucking minutes and it’s torture. He has a lot of opinions about industry politics. During that time, Patty and Stan disappear to take a sleepy Isaac to bed. They shift seating arrangements a little. Mike cuddles up on the couch next to Tanya. Bev and Ben sit on the loveseat with each other. Richie, still cross-legged on the floor, throws an arm over Eddie’s knees and leans against him. They’re being super obvious, but no one says anything or even looks twice at them. 

When Patty and Stan return, everyone trips over themselves to give up their seat to the exhausted parents. But no, they’re fine sitting on the floor, thanks. Patty tries to stand up again to bring them all snacks and drinks, but Mike says, “ _No_ ,” in the same stern voice he probably used back at the library to scold Derry schoolchildren. He hops up and, with an extra set of hands from Bill, brings back some late-afternoon wine and cheese and crackers. 

Once everyone has a drink in hand and a few bites of sustenance, there’s a lull in the conversation. Richie springs on it. His heart rate picks up, but only slightly. 

“So, um. I know some of you already know this but, to… make it official. Eddie and I are together.” 

He glances up at Eddie who gives him a tight-lipped smile in return. “Yeah,” Eddie says. “For a while now. Six months? Since Myra and I separated. Like, officially separated.” 

There’s a beat of the loudest silence Richie has ever heard before Ben says, “Sorry, um. I’m just curious. Who didn’t know?”

“Thanks for the congratulations, buddy, noted,” Richie says over the tittering laughter. “And I know none of you can mind your own fucking business but I did only tell one of you.” He shoots a glare at Bev who smiles at him through her hands. 

“I didn’t _know_ , per se,” Bill says, and Richie doesn’t need to hear the rest of it, already groaning and dropping his head back on Eddie’s leg. Eddie pets his hair, which is nice. “But I mean: Richie comes out as gay, Eddie leaves his wife, you two sneak out of Ben and Bev’s wedding reception an hour early, Richie starts flying to New York every other week. I’m no mystery writer, but…” 

“And let me guess,” Eddie says, his fingers still knit in the curls at the nape of Richie’s neck. “You sleuthed it out with Mike.” 

Mike shrugs, looking at Eddie from the other end of the couch, his arm around Tanya’s shoulders. “We’re all very happy for you.”

“Yeah, we’re happy, just not surprised,” Stan says. As dry as usual, but he’s smiling. “Thanks for trying to upstage our son, though. I would expect nothing less.”

The afternoon turns into early evening as they stay in the living room, cozied up on furniture and on the fluffy area rug on the floor. Richie drinks just enough wine to make it all fuzzy and yellow. Soon, he ends up sitting between Eddie’s legs, one knee on either side of his shoulders, and Eddie keeps absently playing with his hair. It would be embarrassing, how clingy they’re being, if it didn’t feel so good. He teases his friends and makes them laugh. They treat him just the same as they always did, fondly rolling their eyes or beep-beeping him. 

Richie thinks: maybe he hasn’t been this happy in a long time. Since before he grew up and left home and forgot. Since summer afternoons in the clubhouse, time stretched out before them like a slow-flowing river. But even then, he had something to hide, something that kept him tense and watchful, kept his hands close to his chest. Now, he lets them wander. He rests a hand on the muscle of Eddie’s calf, slides it down to circle his ankle. 

Richie thinks: maybe he hasn’t been this happy. 

—

They’ve been together—officially—eight months by the time Eddie finally flies out to L.A. for a visit. It was never a good time with work, projects and deadlines piling up, and Richie always volunteered to come to him. Eddie was starting to feel really guilty about it. He gets uncomfortable when he feels he’s had an unequal exchange with someone; whether in terms of time, money, effort, feelings. He doesn’t want to start down that road with Richie. But every time he offers to pay for some of Richie’s flights, Richie acts like he’s being weird. 

Finally, Eddie manages to take a couple days off work and makes the trip. The flight is sort of hellish, and that only makes him feel worse thinking about Richie doing this twice a month for so long. And never complaining about it once. He leaves New York in the early morning and arrives in L.A. at 9:30am local time. He’s tired and grouchy and grimy. But by the time he makes his way outside, spots Richie’s car rolling into the pick-up zone, and slides into the passenger seat, his mood brightens. 

“How was your flight?” Richie asks as he starts driving.

“Fine. Long. We’re going back to your place first, right? How much time do we have?” 

“We have an hour before I’m supposed to be there,” Richie says. “Which means we have about two hours before I _need_ to be there.” He throws Eddie a cocky grin.

“Such a diva,” Eddie comments dryly. 

“And I went over there at the asscrack of dawn to get some stuff done, so. They can probably survive without me for a bit.” 

Eddie smiles. They’re going to set for Richie and Bill’s show. They’re wrapping their first week of filming and from what Eddie has heard, Richie has basically been living there. He hasn’t had much time for phone calls and his replies to Eddie’s texts have grown later and ever more apologetic for being late. It’s fine, really. Eddie doesn’t need the constant communication; or he doesn’t _want_ to need it. He knows he shouldn’t need it. But without it, he feels the distance more acutely. It would be one thing if, after his long work days, Richie collapsed into bed next to Eddie, and Eddie could hold him while he slept. Living so far apart, Eddie has to suss out his mood from a sparse collection of texts.

He knows all of that is really clingy, so he doesn’t say anything about it. Eddie is here with him now, and that’s all that matters. 

Richie points out a few personal L.A. landmarks as he drives back to his house. One of his favorite restaurants is right over there. He used to rent this weird creepy attic unit in a house just on the other side of the freeway. That yoga studio used to be a comedy club; Richie says he never performed there, and then mumbles something incoherent and shy and probably scandalous. Eddie gathers the rest from the words ‘some guy’ and ‘bathroom.’ Enough said. 

Richie keeps excitedly chattering until he pulls his car into the garage. His house is tall and modern, stacked above the narrow lot. It’s not a private mansion in the hills, but it’s nice. Closer to the action, as Richie says. 

The inside of the house is all eclectic furniture and underutilized space. Richie lives in this three-story, three-bed, three-bath house by himself. As they wander upstairs, half tour, half Richie leading him to the bathroom to clean up, Eddie says, “I pieced together the floor plan from the video calls but… it’s bigger than I thought.”

Richie doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, so all he says is, “Yeah…” They’ve reached Richie’s bedroom-slash-office. It’s a large white-walled room with an en suite bathroom on one side, and sliding doors to a balcony on the other. Richie nods, hands in his pockets. He shrugs in the direction of the bathroom and says, “You should get cleaned up, we have to get going sort of soon.” 

Eddie remembers the nerves he felt the first time Richie spent the weekend at his apartment. So he says, “Apologies for the airport germs,” and tugs Richie in for a quick kiss. 

Richie smiles into it, before he pulls back with a pat to Eddie’s cheek. “You’re the only one who cares about the airport germs, remember? Weirdo.” 

“I like your place,” Eddie says. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get out here. I’m gonna leave, like, half the shit in my suitcase here, yeah?”

Richie gives him a playful grimace. “Don’t you think that’s moving a bit fast, Eds?” 

“Fine. Just a spare toothbrush, then.” Eddie kisses him again, just long and deep enough to clear his head. Richie’s hand slowly unfurls against his chest and runs down to press flat to his stomach. 

When Richie pulls away, he takes in a deep breath. “I wish I could be late but…”

“No, no, I know,” Eddie says. “Shower. I’ll be quick.” 

A little under an hour later, Richie pulls into the studio lot, flashing his credentials. Eddie can tell Richie thinks that’s a hot-shot move; as he keeps driving slowly through the lot, he has a smile on his face. Richie parks and leads Eddie inside a huge windowless building, by way of a narrow hallway. There are a couple promotional posters pinned up on the walls, and Eddie smiles at the one for Bill and Richie’s show as they pass. 

The title of the show, _Fearsome_ , is rendered in a purposefully cheesy, over-the-top horror font, blood dripping down from the etched letters. The three roommates are pictured in a goofy pose, joining forces to hold the door to their apartment shut on the grinning demon. Only a sliver of its face is visible, but a clawed hand reaches through the crack. The tagline at the bottom of the poster reads: _For rent: 3 Bed/1 Wrath._

Eddie’s still not exactly sure what this show is _about_ ; in his estimation, there’s a twenty-percent chance it’s going to be some incomprehensible nonsense born of Bill and Richie hyping each other up and no one challenging them. But there’s an eighty percent chance it actually _is_ good, because Richie’s eyes get bright when he talks about it, and Eddie already loves anything that excites him like that. 

Richie holds open a thick, armored door for Eddie and waggles his eyebrows at him. Eddie steps into the studio. The space is dark and cavernous, a scaffolded ceiling littered with lights. At the moment, the only light is focused on a stage built against the opposite wall. The set is the apartment’s kitchen and living room, three-walls, a couple windows and doors that lead nowhere. It looks remarkably lived-in. Worn-out, spill-stained couch. Dishes piled in the sink. Mismatched chairs around the kitchen table. 

The three main cast members sit around the table, flipping through scripts and nodding along as Bill and another man, probably the director, stand in front of the stage talking to them. The rest of the studio is a bustle of activity, crew members rushing around. Most of them throw a smile in Richie’s direction and say hello as they pass. He greets them back, warmly and, without fail, by name. 

Eddie follows him through the studio toward the stage, smiling and nodding at everyone he passes. 

“Hey, Richie,” a young woman says, falling into step beside him. “Did you get my email?”

“I did, I read it, I’m going to– yeah. Can you give me, like, twenty minutes to think and…?”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem,” she says. She glances to Eddie and smiles. “Hi.”

They stop walking for a moment, and Richie says, “This is Eddie, you’ve… Yeah, you know who Eddie is. Eddie, this is Erica, she’s one of our brilliant writers.” 

She shakes Eddie’s hand. “So nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Eddie returns his hand to his side and looks up at the ceiling and around the studio. “This is pretty cool, I’ve never been to a TV studio before.” 

“No?” Richie flops his arm over his shoulders. “Let’s continue the tour then. Erica, thanks, and send me a prompt if I don’t get back to you, okay?”

“Will do,” she says before continuing on her way. 

“You talk about me a lot?” Eddie asks with a smile as they continue toward the stage. 

“Oh yeah. I sent everyone a Google calendar invite for today that just said, ‘EDDIE,’ in all-caps. So if anyone asks who you are, they’re just being polite.” 

Eddie laughs, honestly not sure if Richie is joking. 

The actors on stage notice them approaching and glance up, but Richie shushes them so he can sneak up behind Bill, who’s paging through a script with intense focus. He jumps on Bill, hands on both his shoulders; Bill flinches and laughs as he turns around, not entirely surprised.

“Did you miss me?” Richie asks. 

“It’s been three hours,” Bill says, then he smiles wide at Eddie and pulls him in for a hug. “Hi, Eddie. Good to see you.” 

“So that’s a yes,” Richie says. “Everybody, this is Eddie… obviously.”

“I know, Rich, you put it on my calendar,” says the other man, who’s standing with Bill. He offers his hand to Eddie. “Hi, I’m Dave.” 

“Dave, our talented director for the pilot,” Richie narrates. Then he looks up to the stage. “And our superstars themselves. Karen, Len, Caleb.” 

They each lean over the edge to shake Eddie’s hand. “Hi,” Eddie says, smiling, a bit awkward. _Everyone_ already knows who he is; he’s never been in a situation like this before. He finds he likes the feeling. 

“Really nice to meet you, Eddie,” Caleb says. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Yeah, yeah, cute,” Richie deadpans. “My former roommates. Now I’m their boss.” 

Eddie still doesn’t quite understand this story. During the year that Richie wasn’t talking to him, he had three, like, twenty-eight year old roommates? Okay. He hasn’t asked for a lot of details. 

Caleb says, smirking, “So, you’re the reason why Richie is so worn-out every other Monday.”

Everyone chuckles, Bill laughing most loudly, as he pats Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie throws a Richie an off-kilter smile, trying to confirm that he's not reading too much into the joke.

“The flight,” Richie interrupts their laughter. It’s the first time Eddie’s seen Richie steer away from an easy joke. “I’m worn out from the _flight_.” 

Caleb winks at Eddie. “Uh huh. The flight.”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough out of you,” Richie says as everyone laughs again. He starts to back away and looks to Eddie. “I’m gonna go to my office to take care of some things, but you can stay out here if you want? Or you can come with me, whatever you want.” 

“Yeah, I’ll come with,” Eddie says, following. 

“Oh, Richie, by the way,” Bill calls after him. “Nico said legal was trying to get in touch with you?” 

“Legal?” Richie frowns. “Why?”

“He didn’t say, it’s probably just a contract thing– Give ‘em a call, okay?”

“Is that, like… is that Mark? Who is that?”

Dave says, “Yeah, Mark Springer.” 

Richie takes out his phone and frowns at it, swiping a few notifications away. “Okay… Thanks. Will do.” He pockets his phone again and looks to Eddie. “Ready?” 

“Yep. Um, nice to meet you all.” 

“Bye, Eddie!” Karen calls from the stage, waving. 

As Richie leads them the rest of the way through the studio, out another door, and down a different hallway, he gets stopped a few more times by other staff. They say hello and meet Eddie, and then consult with Richie about something or other. After each interruption, Richie apologizes to Eddie and they keep moving. 

“No, no, it’s cool,” Eddie says. To be honest, he could watch Richie answer questions, make decisions, and give orders all day. 

Finally they make it to Richie’s office. It’s a rotating space, so it’s not very personalized. There’s a desk, but Richie flops down on the couch to open his laptop. Eddie sits down next to him, eyes flickering around to absorb his surroundings. There’s another poster for the show on the wall. This one credits executive producers, Richie Tozier and Bill Denbrough. There's a huge pile up of dirty coffee mugs and paper coffee cups on the desk. The wastebasket beside it overflows with them.

Then as nonchalantly as he can manage, and with a small laugh, Eddie says, “So… Did you fuck Caleb?”

Richie snaps his head up. “No…”

It’s not as convincing a denial as Eddie expected; his eyebrows shoot up. 

Richie says, more strongly, “No, no, I really didn’t. I, like, almost did once or twice, but I didn’t! And now I’m really _glad_ I didn’t!”

“I mean, it’s fine if you did, I was just wondering.” Eddie huffs a laugh. “Sorry. That was… I didn’t mean to seem jealous.”

Richie grins, not looking annoyed in the slightest. “No, it’s hot. You all possessive.” 

Eddie snorts. “There was just… a vibe there. And you… lived together for a while.” 

Richie, still smiling, returns his attention to his laptop. “If you ever wanted a third, I’m sure he’d be, like, so down.” 

“I don’t think we should fuck someone who works for you.” 

Richie looks back up at Eddie. His face is mostly serious, but his eyebrows twitch. “Do you wanna fuck him?”

Eddie shakes his head, laughing. “No. No, I’m kinda… I dunno. I don’t think I’d be into that, I’m kinda monogamous.” 

Richie stares, the corner of his mouth turned up, and Eddie realizes. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Eddie groans. 

“You’re kinda monogamous?”

“Fuck _off_ , Richie.”

“Maybe I didn’t notice because of all the infidelity.” 

“I’ll stay with Bill,” Eddie threatens. He holds up his cell phone. “I’m calling him right now to tell him that we broke up.”

“I’m just busting your balls, dude,” Richie says, leaning closer. “I don’t wanna fuck Caleb either. I don’t wanna share you.”

“Hm. Cute.” Eddie lets Richie kiss him. He ends up laughing against Richie’s lips when Richie tries to coax his phone from his hand.

“Don’t call Bill,” Richie murmurs, smiling. His breath is warm and sweet on Eddie's face. “He doesn’t love you like I do, baby. He can’t treat you as well as I can.” He’s messing around, but his voice is low enough that Eddie’s stomach swoops. 

Then Richie leans back and opens his laptop, apparently shifting straight into work-mode. Eddie rests against the couch cushions and watches Richie. He’s frowning at his screen again, firing off a quick email once in a while, fingers flying on the keyboard. The crease between his eyebrows deepens as he reads something, lips moving. 

Eddie sits for a while, feeling a little worked up. He’s been worked up since earlier that morning, when he saw Richie again. Since he saw his house and kissed him in his bedroom. 

Eddie brings his knees up on the couch and turns to face Richie, propping his head on one hand. “It’s kinda sexy seeing you at work.”

Richie smirks, clearly not buying it. “Really?”

“Yeah, you’re, like… competent.”

“That is a world-class backhanded compliment.”

“No, okay–”

“Richie, you’re so _competent_ … Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m trying to– Richie, knock it off. I’m being serious. It’s sexy that you’re the boss, okay?” 

Richie grins, lopsided. “Who gave you the idea that I’m the boss?”

“You’re one of the show-runners!” Eddie protests, nudging his thigh with his foot. “You’re an executive producer! Aren’t you quite literally the boss?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Richie surrenders with a shrug. “Are you down for some P.A. roleplay later? I can send you out to get coffee and you can get the wrong coffee and I can… thank you and drink it anyway because that’s what I do because I’m not a monster?” 

Eddie grins. “Yeah, see? That’s hot. You’re in charge but you’re still down-to-earth.”

“Mm.” Richie smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That is a better compliment. We’ll work on it.”

Before Richie can shift his attention away from him, Eddie reaches to turn down the screen of his laptop. “How’s this? I can tell that the people you work with like you and respect you. I can tell that you’re a good leader. And I like how serious your face is when you’re working. It makes me want to distract you.” Eddie leans in to kiss him, slowly, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.

When Eddie breaks the kiss, Richie looks dazed, eyes unfocused behind his glasses. Eddie almost laughs at how out-of-it he looks. (And he files away the praise for another time, when he’ll have a chance to really take Richie apart, make sure he knows how good he is.)

“I actually do have to work,” Richie says with regret. “I realize this might have been a terrible idea.” 

“Hmm.” Eddie pats his knee. “Should I go buy you a coffee?”

“Only if you mess up my order.”

“Will do.”

Eddie spends the rest of the day hanging out in Richie’s office or talking with Bill or watching as they film on set. It’s fun, but he’s ready to go home by the end of it. When they leave, Bill says that he and Audra will have them over for dinner the next night. Much of the cast and crew yells, “Bye, Eddie!” as they head for the door; he sheepishly waves back. 

“They’re fans,” Richie says while they walk to his car. 

“Did you pay them to do that?” 

“I mean, I pay them. Like, in general.” 

It’s almost 7pm by the time they’re back at Richie’s house. Eddie gets the impression Richie would have stayed much later if not for Eddie visiting. As soon as they’re inside, Richie says, “Okay, so– Surprise. I got reservations for eight at one of my favorite restaurants nearby. It’s like. It’s not, like, _super_ fancy but you should probably change.”

Eddie stares back for a second, mouth open. They’re standing in the foyer, having just slipped out of their shoes. Richie reaches around Eddie to close the door and flip the lock.

Then he adds, “I’m gonna change, too. Obviously.” 

“Oh, that’s really nice, Rich,” Eddie says, frowning. “I just– I’m kinda tired, I guess? From traveling… What if we just stay in? Order something?

Richie’s face falls. “You’re tired?” He sighs and it sounds like eight months of built up tension. Eddie knows what’s coming before he says it. “Eddie. Are you, like, worried about paps or something? Like, I think you have this overblown idea of who I am. You’re not dating fucking Beyonce here.” 

Eddie snorts. “Beyonce? Rich.”

“Like, we can go to a fucking restaurant. Or– or– better yet. You could tell Myra that you’re seeing me so you don’t have to be so fucking paranoid all the time.” 

They stare at each other for a moment of silence. Eddie clicks his tongue. “Ah, okay. So. You wanna talk about that?” 

Richie winces. “Um. Yeah, I do. But not in, like, an angry way. Can we start over and just have a normal talk about it?” 

“Yeah, sorry, I’m getting defensive, I might–” Eddie slips back into his shoes and nods toward the front door. “I’m gonna take a lap real quick?” 

“Okay, great,” Richie says, nodding. “Let’s take five, regroup.” 

“Great. Balcony in five?” Eddie runs out the front door. 

He takes a brisk walk around the block of Richie’s neighborhood, pounding the pavement. Almost jogging. But he’s not dressed for it, so he keeps it to a walk just fast enough to seem suspicious to passersby. He feels like a dick for letting this linger for so long. He’s the one who said he wanted it all with Richie, who told him they don’t have to hide anymore, and yet he’s the one still limiting them months later. He feels: embarrassed. That’s most of it. And he can push past that without making it Richie’s problem. But he definitely needs the five minutes. 

When he’s done, he steps out onto the balcony and sits down in a chair next to Richie. 

“Are you… unclenched now?” Richie asks him, smiling a little. 

“Yeah, as much as I can be,” Eddie says with a self-deprecating laugh. “So, do you wanna…?”

“Okay. Sure, so.” Richie takes in a deep breath. “It’s been almost a year. It’s been eight months. I’m just wondering when you’re gonna tell Myra and your kids that we’re together. You know, you said it was something you wanted to do. But now… Like, you understand why that makes me feel like shit, right?”

“I do, yeah. I’m sorry. Um. So, here’s the background.”

“Oh, there’s background.”

“There is.” Eddie stares out at the apartment across the street from them, a neat row of windows partially obscured by the fronds of tall spindly palm trees. “So, after Ben and Bev’s wedding, when I went home, I told Myra that I’m gay.”

“Okay.” Richie’s answer doesn’t betray much other than cautious surprise. 

“Yeah. And she immediately asked me if I cheated on her with you—and I denied it.”

“You–? What?” Richie turns toward him. “Why did you deny it? That was your chance!”

“No, no, okay, listen to me, Richie. I told her I didn’t cheat on her, but I told her that I had feelings for you, and realized I’m gay because of that.” 

“So… like.” Richie blinks and shakes his head. “What?” 

Eddie can’t suppress a self-satisfied grin. “It’s a good lie, right?”

Richie looks straight ahead again, folding his arms across his chest. “I love it when my boyfriend giddily brags about what a good liar he is, this is fun.”

“No, no, because, listen– It explains all of our weirdness and her suspicions, I’m partially admitting guilt, and it set the stage for _this_ –” Eddie gestures back and forth between them, “–when the time comes. But it doesn’t give her grounds for anything, right? Not legally. Because I didn’t actually cheat on her. Smart, right?” 

Richie stares at him. “It’s… incredibly manipulative. But… it is smart.”

“I know. It’s better than denying it outright. Seems more credible that way.”

“You are way too proud of yourself.”

“Hey, you can’t have an affair with me and then get on my ass about dishonesty,” Eddie argues, pointing at him. “That ship has _sailed_ , Richie.”

Richie shakes his head, rubbing his temples. “Fine, okay, so, your web of lies aside. What’s up? You’ve planted the seeds, it’s been a long time…?”

“I’ll tell her soon,” Eddie says, knowing that his promises have lost some of their weight at this point. “I really want you to be able to see my kids again. And I really want to, just, be normal.” He pauses and twists in his chair to face Richie. “And let’s, um. Let’s go to dinner tonight. It was really nice of you to get a reservation. I’m sorry I’ve been, like, insane.”

“No, you’re good.” Richie smiles at him for a moment, his face lit by the soft, hazy evening glow. For a moment, Eddie feels like he’s been caught by an undertow of fondness, his head pulled underwater; his chest swells and he doesn’t breathe. Then Richie stands up from his chair and offers his hand to pull Eddie to his feet. Unnecessary, but sweet. “If you bailed, I would have just called up one of my many, many friends to go in your place, so…”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Eddie says, following him back inside. 

They both change into nicer shirts and blazers. Standing in the bathroom, side by side, Eddie smiles at Richie’s reflection in the mirror as he fiddles with his collar, making sure the two-buttons-undone look falls just right. Eddie likes these moments most of all. It's disarming and intimate in a way that feels warm and secure; not the type of intimate that leaves him overexposed and shivering.

While they walk down the stairs together, Richie pulls his phone out of his pocket and types something. “Here, let me just leak to the press real quick where we’re going…”

Eddie laughs, reaching to playfully swat his butt. “Shut up.” 

Richie reels around and snags Eddie with an arm around his neck, pulling him close for a quick, blurry selfie. “Should I post this to my Instagram?” Richie wonders, admiring the photo, and holding his phone out of Eddie's grasping reach. “Do you think Myra follows me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie’s a Scorpio in this, so.
> 
> (also just want to make sure we’re clear that his mastermind plan is not necessarily going to WORK. by now, you should all be used to the central conceit of this fic which is “Richie and Eddie can be disastrously wrong sometimes… as a treat”)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna say up top that this ain’t marriage story so I’m gonna skim most of the divorce procedural stuff.

Eddie has never considered himself a particularly _lucky_ person. He’s had a decent share of misfortune in his life. He grew up with a single parent and without a lot of money. His material success later in life he’s always attributed to his own hard work and intelligence. Besides, that never felt like luck to Eddie because he’s never been able to sit back and enjoy it. He’s been striving and scratching and clawing for twenty years; there’s no plateau to reach to catch his breath and admire the view, there’s only the fear of stumbling and falling off the edge of a cliff. He’s never viewed it as success, only as surviving. 

Maybe, arguably, he’s had some advantages. He can admit that, albeit through gritted teeth. 

The complicated part is that Eddie’s greatest strokes of luck are all linked to his greatest misfortunes. He grew up in Derry; he learned at a young age the icy-burn of fear on the back of his neck, dripping down his spine and rooting him in place. In Derry, he met the best friends of his life, and remains recklessly devoted to each of them. He married Myra, a woman who he was never in love with, but who offered him a type of love that he could recognize, that he felt he could return. With Myra, he had two children who amaze him everyday and make him feel simultaneously important and inconsequential, but in the best way. For the big stuff, they don’t need him. They figured out how to be curious and kind all on their own. 

Then he went back to Derry and he nearly fucking died, and as everyone has assured him since, he’s very, very lucky not to have died. But Eddie doesn’t really feel that way. There’s nothing about getting skewered through the chest and temporarily paralyzed that screams _luck_ to him. It’s perspective, maybe. If it was his time and he dodged it, then maybe it was luck. (Isn’t that what Bowers said to him? It’s a fear-fuzzy memory, the bathroom, the face in the mirror. _It’s your time, Eddie_. Didn’t he say that? Or is Eddie editorializing his own memories, assigning significance where none exists? Either way, he was wrong; Eddie’s still alive, and Bowers is dead, hatcheted in the skull by Richie.) So if it wasn’t Eddie’s time, then it stands to reason that it was just a massive, cosmic punishment. 

And he met Richie again. And Richie has made him happier and sadder and angrier than anyone he’s ever met, and maybe that’s luck. It’s a kind of luck to find a person who he’s so closely tethered to, a person who he finds more attractive the longer he looks at him. To know what he’s going to say before he says it and yet never be bored. 

Eddie doesn’t believe in soulmates or anything like that, but there are a lot of people in the world and he’s met a lot of people, and he hasn’t liked very many of them enough to have dinner with. So, yeah, it’s pretty lucky to meet someone he’s capable of loving, even if he had to travel such a complicated path to get here. 

Uncomplicated luck, however—simple, dumb—that’s not something Eddie experiences. There’s usually a trade-off. 

So, one weekend, when Myra tells him that she’s dating someone else and wants to move forward with the divorce, Eddie is left waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“His name is Ken,” Myra tells him, failing to contain a smile. They’re standing on the driveway for their usual Sunday evening conference, after Eddie brought the kids home. Eddie doesn’t ask for more details, just says, “Oh,” but he gets them anyway. Ken is a lawyer, and he’s in his early fifties, and he has two daughters, Katie and Haley, they’re twelve and sixteen, and he’s been divorced for two years. 

“Oh,” Eddie says again, managing a smile. “That’s great.”

It is great, objectively, that Myra is moving on. And that she wants to fast-track the divorce? That’s fantastic. Still, the tiniest seed of misplaced resentment takes root in his chest. She’s really having an easy time with this, huh? Where’d she meet this guy, anyway? And he’s a lawyer? How long have they been dating? And Eddie has been stewing in guilt and worrying about hurting her? 

(Okay, he tries to tamp that down. Sometimes it helps to imagine telling Richie his thoughts; imaginary-Richie raises his eyebrows and says, “You do realize this is a good thing, right?” Yeah. It’s a good thing.)

“You know,” Myra is still talking, unaware of Eddie’s internal crisis, “When you told me that you’re… gay–” She pauses before she says the word, as if she’s unsure of the pronunciation, needs to really put some thought into it, “–I didn’t understand. How you could have stayed with me for so long, and _you_ asked me to marry you, and you…” She trails off, shaking her head as if she’s given up on ever understanding. “But with Ken.” The smile starts to come back. “The way he wants me– You were never like that, not even when we first met.”

Eddie grimaces. “Well, I’m– that’s really–”

Myra interrupts his awkward floundering, “Sorry, is that weird to tell you?” 

“No, no. I’m… actually happy for you.” Eddie pauses. “Yeah, it is a little weird to say. Please don’t tell me anything else about your sex life.”

“I won’t,” she promises with a disarming laugh.

They decide to get the wheels turning on the official divorce, the terms of their separation agreeable to both of them, but maybe they can revisit a few things, and they’ll call their lawyers. 

It’s incredibly civil. The tone makes it sound like they’re planning a birthday party. 

Eddie drives home feeling like he’s just gotten away with murder. 

Sitting on his couch later, a glass of wine in hand, he texts Richie: _So… Myra has a serious boyfriend and she wants to divorce me._

Richie’s reply is quick and sharp as usual: _Aw, sorry buddy. That sucks :(_

Then a second later: _Did you tell her about me?_

Eddie sighs, tapping his fingernails against the back of his phone. _No. I’m gonna wait it out at this point, sorry. Seems safer that way._

Richie says, _Ok._

Eddie immediately begins typing an overlong explanation for himself: _At least if we’re officially divorced she won’t have any recourse if she gets pissed at me, and telling her right now after she just told me about Ken would seem contrived and would probably make her suspicious, like I was waiting for a good time to tell her, which I WAS, but_

He stops typing when another message from Richie comes through: _That’s probably smart. I’m happy for you! Hope it’s not too much longer :)_

Eddie backspaces everything, grateful for their incompatible phones (iPhone and Android, real star-crossed lovers bullshit) since Richie will be none the wiser to how much time Eddie spent typing. 

He sends: _Thanks for understanding. It won’t be much longer, I promise. I love you._

Richie sends, _I love you, too!_ and a couple emojis that Eddie’s phone presents to him as gray boxes. 

Yeah. Real star-crossed lovers. 

Leading up to the premier of _Fearsome_ , Richie gets really busy. Busy enough that he has to cancel two visits in a row. Eddie volunteers to fly out to him, which leads Richie to admit that, honestly, he needs a couple weekends to lay low and recharge. It’s a bummer, but they both know that if they’re in this for the long haul, twice-monthly visits are going to burn them out. Eddie’s been thinking about proposing longer, monthly visits. That way, every other month, one of them can take a few days off work. That way, Eddie could have one weekend a month that’s not total chaos. Right now, he either has the kids or he has Richie, and he goes into the start of every work week already exhausted. So, he’s more than sympathetic to Richie’s request for time off. Even if it’s personally disappointing. 

They’ve cooled in general, settling into their long-distance relationship. Eddie feels more secure about it, less anxious that Richie is suddenly going to decide to pull away. He’s started mentioning his ‘boyfriend who lives in L.A.’ to coworkers, which he realizes sounds incredibly fake, but all his coworkers are too scared of him to push it. 

So, for the month, Eddie lives his life. He runs in the mornings. He goes to work and drinks a little too much coffee and gets worked up over breaches of email etiquette. He reads the offending emails out loud to the one coworker who’s not afraid of him. Or at least, still willing to bond over talking shit with him. He tries to meal prep. He mostly fails and ends up getting a lot of take-out anyway. He slowly cleans up his apartment between visits from his children, only for it to be destroyed again. He tries to find something to watch on Netflix that doesn’t make him want to pull out his teeth from boredom. It’s a life. 

Lately, Eddie’s been realizing he doesn’t have a lot of _friends_. Like a lot of middle-aged, straight men—well, ostensibly straight—his social circle primarily consisted of his wife’s friends and their husbands. Eddie didn’t like most of Myra’s friends (and he liked their husbands even less) so it’s no hardship that he’s lost them. But he wouldn’t mind going to a restaurant with a couple people now and then. Whatever. He can have stilted, carefully nonpolitical conversations about current events. In fact, he almost _wants_ to. 

He has the Losers, but that’s different. They’re all so far-flung and busy, and there’s a group dynamic there that Eddie struggles to maintain one-on-one. 

At his lowest point, Eddie considers joining one of those singles groups just so he can, like, go bowling or something. But then he pulls himself together, remembers that he hates bowling, and asks his one tolerable coworker to get a drink with him instead. Her name is Leigh and she’s also ambiguously-forty; she has long gray-blond hair and a teenage son. She’s an actuary by day and a techno DJ by night. She’s just cool enough to be intimidating which has always been Eddie’s type in friends. He doesn’t want a friend who doesn’t feel like a little bit of a reach. 

It turns out to be just what he needs. The two start the night complaining about their coworkers and end it complaining about their exes. Eddie reveals that his mysterious boyfriend is Richie Tozier and Leigh says the name ‘sounds familiar’ so they take a scroll through Google images and Eddie’s own camera roll. 

“He’s cute,” Leigh says, chuckling at some of his fashion choices circa 2007. “You should move to L.A. Go be his trophy husband. Why are you even working?” 

Eddie flips through a few more photos (he’s really seen them all at this point) and puts his phone down on the bar. “I like my job. And I need to stay in New York for my kids.” 

“You ‘like’ your job?” Leigh looks unimpressed. “This isn’t a performance review. I’m not wearing a wire.” 

“Okay, okay,” Eddie says, laughing. “Despite the hour I spent bitching about everyone we work with, I actually… like my job. When I get to be left alone to do it. And I’m good at it. And, you know, I have fucking expenses. I’m gonna let Richie pay child support? No.”

Leigh doesn’t say anything for a beat, smiling at him. “I’m sure we have an office in L.A. Get transferred.” 

“My kids–?”

“You either live in New York and fly out to L.A. twice a month or you live in L.A. and fly out to New York twice a month. Right?” 

Now Eddie is silent, looking back at her, smiling. “Well.” 

(He has thought about it. But it makes him feel terribly guilty.)

“But of course I’ll be mad if you abandon me here,” she says, and Eddie is grateful for the shift in topic and mood. 

By the time they part ways for the night, Eddie has purchased a t-shirt that Leigh designed that he’s probably never going to wear outside of the house, and tentatively agreed to go to one of her shows. He drives home, feeling energized, exhilarated; not stressed or tired, his two usual states. When he settles into bed, too alert to fall asleep yet, he texts Richie. 

Eddie: _I hope you had a good day._

Eddie: _I had a really good day._

Eddie lays with his phone on his chest for a few minutes, allowing himself to think about living with Richie. If that was something Richie wanted. He could transfer his job or get a new one. He could live in that big modern house with Richie, turn it into a home for both of them. He could keep his apartment in New York to stay with his kids. And when they get older, maybe he could fly them out to visit. Myra wouldn’t like that, but she’ll only have so much control. 

His phone buzzes once, twice. 

Richie: _Really good, huh?_

Richie: _It’s okay. Not over yet._

Eddie smiles as he responds, _I got drinks with a coworker._

Richie: _I thought you hated all your coworkers._

Eddie: _I like one of them._

Eddie: _Still working?_

Richie: _Yeah it never ends._

Eddie wraps it up in a few more messages, saying goodnight and leaving Richie to finish his work. He likes that they can be apart and independent and still feel close. At this point, their relationship has had quite the trial by fire, and he thinks they’re stronger for it. But he knows that he’d so much rather have these end of day chats side by side in bed than over text, on opposite coasts.

The Friday that season one of _Fearsome_ drops on Netflix, Bill tries to organize a simultaneous viewing party for the Losers, but they’re all busy adults who can’t drop everything to binge-watch a TV show so that falls through. Richie tells the group chat, _NO SPOILERS!_ but it’s not long before Mike is asking: _Am I Don? Is Don supposed to be me?_

Bill says, _The characters aren’t based on us._

Richie says, _Yeah he’s a mix of you and Stan._

Eddie isn’t able to start watching the show until later that night. He leaves work early to pick up the kids; Charlie’s friend Olivia is tagging along for a sleepover. He bakes a frozen pizza for them, and gets Frank set up with something to watch on the TV in Eddie’s bedroom, while the two girls hang out in the kids’ room with the door shut. Their squealing laughter occasionally interrupting, Eddie pours himself a glass of wine and sits down in the living room to watch the show. 

By now, he knows a little better what this show is about. Richie and Bill have explained the entire arc of the first season (eight half-hour episodes) to him. Eddie finds Richie’s anti-spoiler stance ironic, but he’s excited to see the vision fully realized. 

As he navigates through the Netflix menu, he texts the Losers group chat: _Starting episode 1 now._

Both Richie and Bill reply with enthusiasm. 

Eddie’s viewing isn’t uninterrupted, though. Only a few minutes into the first scene—which features one of the roommates’ one-night-stand leaving the apartment, and running into the resident fear-demon on his way out—Frank wanders out to say that he doesn’t want to watch a movie. So, Eddie pauses it and follows him back to the master bedroom to find another way to entertain him. 

For a solid ten minutes, Frank tosses and turns on top of the neatly-made bed and whines about being bored—Eddie can relate—while Eddie sits by and patiently makes suggestions.

“Wanna watch something with me?” Eddie asks. (Not Richie’s show, obviously; Eddie can finish it another time.) “Or play a game?”

Frank groans dramatically, turning his face into the sheets. “No. I don’t wanna do anything.” 

“Do you want to… read?”

Frank lifts his head to give Eddie such a perfect ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’ look that he laughs. 

“Okay. Come on. Let’s go for a quick walk.” Eddie pats his arm as he twists away from him. 

“No.”

“Yes.” Eddie tugs on his arm a little. “Just a quick walk. Your sister won’t burn down the house in ten minutes, right?” 

“I don’t want to,” Frank says, still squirming. 

“Hey, I know how you feel right now,” Eddie says. “It always helps me to move. Can you give it a try?”

Frank agrees, a bit grumpily, and he gets up and goes to put on his shoes. Eddie taps on the second bedroom’s door. He hears laughter and hushed conversing inside. Then Charlie opens the door a crack, looking up at him, smiling wide. “What?”

“We’re going for a walk. We’ll be back in ten minutes.” 

“Okay.” She closes the door and goes back to whatever suspicious activity she was doing before. 

They’re only a block into the walk, Frank dragging his feet as he trudges a few paces behind Eddie, when Eddie’s phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s the group chat. 

Richie: _So Eds… did you finish the first episode…_

It has been about twenty minutes since he said he started it. Eddie pauses to respond. _Not yet, sorry. Something came up with my son._

Richie: _Boooo_

Bill: _Aw that’s fine Eddie!_

Ben: _You’re a good dad, Eddie!_

Mike: _Hope Frank’s okay._

Richie: _Well now I look like a dick thanks guys_

Eddie snorts a laugh and keeps walking as Frank catches up to him. He stopped stomping around so much, but he’s still not particularly sociable. 

Eddie replies, _He’s fine, thanks. I’ll keep watching soon._

When they get back to Eddie’s apartment a few minutes later, Frank seems lighter on his feet. He bounds up to the third floor, and runs back to Eddie’s room, apparently no longer gripped with boredom. 

Eddie, feeling self-satisfied, returns to the couch and to his glass of wine. He finishes the first episode and he’s relieved to enjoy it. The tone of the show makes the premise work in a way he wouldn’t have expected. The cast is charming and funny; the dynamic between the three roommates is reminiscent of the Losers in a way that warms his heart. 

At the end, Eddie assures them that he loved it. 

Richie: _Oh thank god_

Bill: _He thought you were gonna dump him if you hated it_

Richie: _Shut up_

Mike: _Hahahaha_

Richie: _KEEP WATCHING_

Eddie does, but he gets interrupted again barely five minutes into the second episode when he hears a shout—Charlie yells, “Frank! What are you doing?”—and a door slams. 

Eddie pauses the TV. He doesn’t get up from the couch yet. “What’s going on, guys?” 

Frank’s voice now: “Charlie, _stop_.”

He sighs and goes to investigate, finding some sort of stand-off in the hallway. Frank tugs on the doorknob to the kids’ bedroom with his full body weight. 

“She won’t let me–” Frank puts one foot against the doorframe and yanks. “I need to _get_ something, Charlie.” 

“Okay, hey, stop,” Eddie says, dispassionately. He’s not that attached to anything in this apartment. So what if his kid kicks in a door? “Charlie, open up. It’s your brother’s bedroom, too.” 

When Eddie returns to the couch he sends another text before he unpauses: _I might not get through the whole season tonight, sorry. Busy mediating territorial disputes between my children. Charlie has a friend over so she’s being a little terror._

Richie: _This sounds amazing. I wish I was there with you._

Bev: _Aww_

Eddie flushes, his skin warm with some embarrassment, but there’s something else beneath it, something more pleasant. He’s still not fully accustomed to being seen with Richie, being openly affectionate. But he’s getting used to it. 

He responds, _I wish you were here, too._

Then he adds, because it’s true, _I miss you._

Their friends all have a lot to say about that little exchange. Eddie smiles as he watches the hearts roll in, alongside the gentle teasing. _Get a room_ , says Bill. 

Richie: _I’d be on the first flight out baby but it might be against the fire code to have that many people shacked up in your tiny apartment._

Eddie’s face warms more at the ‘baby’; Richie only calls him that in a teasing context, but he might be catching onto how much Eddie actually likes it. In front of their friends, even over text, the pet name feels like Richie has just put his arm possessively around his waist and pulled him close. 

Eddie might be going a little crazy not seeing him. 

He’s smiling so much at his phone that he realizes he hasn’t been paying attention to the show. So he pauses it for now, then turns off the TV, deciding to watch the rest of it tomorrow. 

Over the following week, Eddie only becomes more crazy about not seeing Richie. He’s flying out to L.A. on Friday and the anticipation always gets to him. So, on Tuesday when he gets home from work, he immediately opens the link to an interview with Richie and Bill.

Bill sent it to the group chat earlier in the day; he seems more comfortable self-promoting than Richie, who insisted it’s not required viewing. It’s some talk show appearance. The clip is just under ten minutes long. Eddie sits on his couch and watches the video on his phone with more rapt attention than he usually gives anything; he’s not eating while watching it, or scrolling through social media, or doing dishes. He really does miss Richie, no surprise to anyone, and it’s a relief to see him on the screen, knowing that this was filmed the day prior. 

Richie and Bill sit side-by-side in chairs, across the desk from the host. They’re sitting in a mirrored pose, their opposite legs crossed. They’re both dressed nicely, collared shirts and blazers. Bill wears glasses, too; he seems to favor them for public appearances. Eddie makes a mental note to ask Bill if his streak of gray is natural or strategically dyed. Richie has some well-groomed stubble across his jaw, cutting a line under his cheekbones. His skinny black tie rests off-center, and the buttons of his shirt are under the slightest amount of strain, the fabric buckling between them. 

Eddie already knows this is going to be a thing for him. He likes watching Richie in these scenarios—a lot. His casual confidence, his comfortable banter with the host, the way he nods while he absorbs a question. So he settles back against the couch cushion and decides that if he gets turned on from watching an interview of two of his childhood friends then… that’s fine. He’ll probably need to jerk off after this, but he’s made his peace with it. 

After a few pleasantries with the host, they play a short clip from the first episode, and Bill starts in on his usual spiel. Eddie’s heard it a few times by now.

“Richie and I grew up together,” Bill starts, “So a lot of what we talk about together is our childhood, and I think that fear is such a big part of childhood in a way that we quickly forget or that changes when you grow up. I mean, when I was a kid I remember being… viscerally terrified a lot of the time.” There’s some murmuring laughter from the studio audience, and Bill clarifies, “Of small things!” 

“Yeah, small things,” Eddie mutters to himself, feeling silly for talking back. 

“A dark corner or a scary movie poster,” Bill elaborates. “That kind of thing. And that’s always impacted my work.”

The host says, “But this is a more comedic take on that.”

Bill nods. “Yeah, Richie makes everything into a joke, so.”

Richie grins and gives it right back: “And Bill takes everything so seriously…”

“I think the show strikes that balance really well,” the host says. “I went in expecting only comedy, nothing deeper, like a Richie Tozier stand-up set, but it was more than that.” 

Eddie catches the shadow across Richie’s eyes as he laughs. He’s the first to tell you that his old stand-up was mostly garbage, but that doesn’t mean he likes it when somebody else tells him that. 

Bill says, “Yeah, I think the show is really about when fear meets adult life and the kind of mundane, everyday, sometimes absurd fears we all have.”

This seems to spark an idea in Richie, who usually lets Bill take the reins. He leans forward, scratching his face and recrossing his legs and says, “And that’s really what I think is—hysterical. You know? We had these great conversations in the writer’s room about, like, just weird things we’re afraid of. And it’s so boring. And I think that’s the real difference. When I was a kid, I had nightmares about werewolves chasing me or, you know, that kind of thing. Monsters. Mortal threats. It was so primal. Now, a nightmare to me is like… I’m late for a flight and I’m trying to pull up Uber on my phone and the app won’t load.”

Eddie’s grinning so wide his cheeks ache; the host says, “That _is_ a nightmare.” 

Richie agrees, “It is.”

The host says, “You know, this show, it goes to some dark places that I didn’t expect.” 

“It’s horror,” says Richie, deadpan, prompting the audience to laugh. 

“It’s horror- _comedy_ ,” the host argues. 

Richie, still straight-faced, says, “Yeah, it has horror right in the name.” 

Eddie’s noticed that Richie likes to pick petty little arguments with interviewers. Sometimes it goes over well, and sometimes it doesn’t. 

This time, the host drops the back-and-forth to say, “One of my favorite moments, toward the end of this season, is when we realize that one of the character’s fears—this recurring image we saw throughout the season, that seemed like a throwaway detail at first blush—is actually related to trauma he suffered in the past.”

Bill nods and says, “Right. I think that’s really the key moment from this first season…”

And it continues on like that. 

Eddie finishes watching it, then replays it, focusing on the way Richie’s jaw and throat move. In his defense, he hasn’t seen Richie in person in nearly six weeks. But he gives up only two minutes into his second viewing because the camera spends more time on Bill than it does on Richie, and Eddie has the real thing available to him and probably willing to give him some attention. 

Eddie goes to his bedroom and changes into something more comfortable—sweatpants and a t-shirt—and texts Richie: _Can I call you?_ Then, knowing how that stresses him out: _Nothing bad, just miss you._

And he’s angling for phone sex, but Richie will figure that out soon enough. 

Only a few seconds later, Eddie’s phone lights up with an incoming call from Richie. He smiles as he answers, “Hey, Richie, what’s up?”

“Nothing,” Richie says with a perplexed laugh. “You asked me to call you. What’s up with you?” 

“Where are you?” Eddie asks as he walks into the bathroom and stands in front of the sink. 

“At home,” Richie answers slowly. “Are you sure you’re good?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I just missed you,” Eddie says. “You have a minute to talk?” 

“I got all the time in the world, baby.” 

Eddie smiles as he says, “I just watched that interview that Bill linked.” 

“Yeah? What’d you think?” 

“I didn’t hear anything you said, too distracted thinking about getting you out of that suit.” 

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” There’s rustling on the other end of the line. “Sorry. I didn’t know we were doing this, and I’m– I’m sitting on the toilet, let me just…” 

Eddie laughs, bubbling with affection. 

Richie asks, “Can I call you back in like two minutes?” 

“Yeah,” says Eddie. “Hurry. I’m gonna get started without you.” 

“Eddie, you’re killing me.”

Richie hangs up but he calls back in just under two minutes. Eddie is still standing in front of the bathroom mirror, palming his dick through his sweatpants as it begins to fill out. 

When he answers, Richie says, “Alright, I finished up and wiped my ass, now I’m pantsless in bed with my dick in my hand, you were saying?” 

“Don’t touch yourself yet,” Eddie says without missing a beat. 

Richie inhales sharply. There’s no tone of teasing to his voice anymore when he says, “Okay.” 

“If I was there, after that show… Uh.” Eddie pauses. “You have… greenrooms? Is that the right word?” 

“Yeah, but that’s like– that’s like for everybody,” Richie says. “You’re not gonna fuck me in a greenroom.” 

“I might fuck you in a greenroom,” Eddie bites back. He enjoys the edge of banter from Richie—his dick definitely enjoys it—but he hides his amusement. “Whatever. This is a fantasy, Richie.” 

“Okay, fine, proceed. You’re in the greenroom, waiting, I come back after my interview.” 

“I tell you to lock the door.” 

Richie sounds less casual when he says, “Okay. I lock the door.” 

“I, uh… There’s a… mirror for like, getting ready. Make-up, hair, whatever.” 

Richie asks, “Are you getting a greenroom confused with a dressing room?” 

“I might be,” Eddie says with a laugh, finally breaking. “Can we not get hung up on the details here? Um, I shove you up against the counter, in front of the mirror.” 

“Mm, okay.” Richie’s voice goes from light and teasing to deep and rough like the flip of a switch. “You bite my neck.” 

“Yeah, fuck. You love that.” Eddie slips his right hand inside his pants, thighs tensing. “What sounds do you make while I mark up your neck?” 

On command, Richie’s breathy moans come through the receiver and send flames licking out from Eddie’s core. 

Eddie says, all in a rush, “I spin you around and bend you over the counter and pull down your pants.” He yanks down his own sweatpants and briefs just far enough for his dick to spring up against his stomach. He gets a pump of the unscented hand lotion beside the sink and gets to work. “You’re still wearing your suit and your fucking tie–” 

“God, Eddie,” Richie whines. “Fuck me.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re so eager for my cock, you don’t even let me finger you first–” 

“Fuck, fuck, can I touch myself now?” 

“Yes, yes, god,” Eddie says, too breathless. “Sorry, I forgot, yes, Rich. Are you touching yourself?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I am. Pull my hair.” 

Eddie can hear the sound of wet, slapping skin through the phone and he fucks his hand enthusiastically, leaning over the sink. “Yeah, I pull your head back and make you watch me in the mirror. See how well I’m fucking you.” 

Richie groans, loud and long. 

“Do you–?” Eddie starts, panting. “Finger yourself, I want you to feel me.” 

“I am, I am, I already–” Richie cuts himself off with a gasp, a garbled, “ _FuckfuckEddie_ –”

“Are you coming?” 

“Yeah,” Richie says, breathless and pitched, still in the middle of it. 

“That took no time at all,” Eddie says in wonder, feeling half-crazed. “You must have wanted it so bad.” He gets another sloppy pump of lotion, mixing with his precome in his palm, and closes his eyes, picturing the fantasy in his mind. Pretending the edge of the counter that bumps against his thigh is Richie’s ass, that his clenched, wet hand is Richie’s hole. 

“Come on, you’re right behind me,” Richie encourages, voice low and steady now that he’s finished. Eddie breathes in huffs; his heart pounds in his throat. He can practically see Richie’s hungry glower. “Come inside me.” 

With a whine, Eddie lets loose, shooting into the basin of the sink. 

Breathing heavily and standing on shaky legs, he lets out a laugh. “Fuck, Richie. That was really good.” 

“Yeah, it was,” Richie says, his voice back to chipper and conversational. Eddie kind of loves that, the range, all the different ways he gets to know Richie, gets to see and hear him. “Maybe we need to go a month without seeing each other more often,” Richie teases. “Get you all worked up from seeing me on a daytime talk show, you fucking horndog.” 

Eddie laughs. “We’ll see if you change your tune on Friday.” He runs the water to wash away the evidence and clean his hand. 

Richie comments, “Is that–? Are you in your bathroom?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Did you… jerk off in the bathroom, like…” 

Richie trails off, so Eddie finishes for him: “I fucked my hand over the bathroom sink pretending it was you, yeah.” 

Richie groans dramatically. “Lord have mercy. That’s so fucking hot. On Friday, be ready to fuck me immediately, okay? As soon as we walk in the door. I know you feel gross after being on an airplane but I don’t care, I like it that way.” 

Eddie laughs and he shifts his phone, trapped between his shoulder and ear, to dry his hands. “That’s not the hot kind of dirty, that’s just like, everybody’s recirculated germs and sweat.” 

“Fuck me in the shower then, whatever.” From Richie’s tone, it sounds like they’re making dinner plans. 

“Oh, that could work.” Eddie leaves the bathroom to collapse on his bed. Now he’s thinking about _that_ … He palms his soft dick through his pants, not with any real purpose yet, just absently touching. “You wanna… you wanna stay on the line and talk until we’re ready for round two?”

—

On Friday morning, Richie picks up Eddie from the airport, drives them back to his place, and they fuck in the shower as promised. It ends up softer and slower than Richie expected, Eddie’s arms wrapped around his waist and cheek pressed against his back, rocking into him under the warm spray. After, they lounge in Richie’s bed, sipping coffee, towels wrapped loose around their waists. 

“I have good news,” Richie says.

Eddie, cradling his coffee mug against his bare chest, takes a carefully coordinated sip so he doesn’t spill any. “What is it?” 

“We got renewed. Season two, baby.” Richie throws a goofy hang-ten, sticking his tongue out. 

“Really?” Eddie sits up straight, bright-eyed, sloshing some coffee onto his hand. “Holy shit, that’s amazing. And– so soon?” 

“It is kinda soon, and it’s not, like, official-official yet, but…” Richie shrugs. Eddie beams at him, his skin even brighter from the glow of morning light through the window. Richie returns the smile and lets his eyes roam Eddie’s chest—the familiar puckers of his scar, hairless and shiny before it tapers into unmarred skin—to the jut of one hipbone where his towel is loose around his waist. Richie reaches to tweak his hipbone between two fingers and Eddie’s smile widens. 

“Well, can I take you to dinner tonight?” Eddie asks. “To… unofficially celebrate?” 

“Sure, but it’s only…” Richie leans across Eddie, landing heavily on purpose—Eddie lets out a soft _oof_ —to grab his phone from the nightstand. “Ten-thirty. What are we gonna do all day?” 

They find ways to fill the day. They take their time getting dressed before they head out to stroll aimlessly around Richie’s neighborhood. They end up grabbing tacos from a food truck for lunch, and eat them huddled on the sidewalk, dripping salsa and pork juice to the pavement and licking their fingers. They talk about Richie’s work and Eddie’s kids, segmenting the conversation around quick stops in whatever stores look interesting. 

Later in the afternoon, while they walk back home, Richie takes a swing at a conversation topic in which he lacks confidence. “So how’s work going?” 

Richie would admit if pressed—but he wouldn’t volunteer the information—that he still has almost no idea what Eddie’s job entails. Maybe he set himself up for that when they met again in Derry, by taking a crack at him for his boring office job. But it was just so irresistible and he would do the same thing all over again if presented the opportunity. Now, five years later—shit, it’s been a long time—Eddie’s answers about his job are short and lacking detail. Richie feels it’s way too late in the game to ask for a quick primer on what he does for a living.

This time, though, Eddie doesn’t give some vague answer and bridge to another topic. He slows his walking pace and glances over to him. “Hey, Richie.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I was thinking. The only things keeping me in New York right now are my kids—who I only see twice a month—and my job—that doesn’t have to be my job. You know what I mean?” 

Richie doesn’t know what he means. They’ve stopped walking now and step out of the way of the sidewalk, onto the grass boulevard. A fit dad pushing a stroller jogs past them before Eddie continues.

“And, you know, it’s like.” Eddie stares just past Richie’s shoulder, lips pursed. “Either way I’m flying across the country twice a month. It’s just a matter of where I’m spending the time in between. Alone in New York or…”

“Oh.” Richie’s eyebrows raise, involuntary, as he catches onto Eddie’s meaning.

Eddie’s expression falters. “Sorry, I know that’s a lot to drop on you, I’ve just been thinking about it.” 

Richie starts to smile. “You wanna move in with me?” 

He almost expects Eddie to back down, snort and shrug it off. But they don’t really do that to each other anymore. Eddie doesn’t do that anymore. Eddie is always a step ahead of Richie, asking him to follow. Maybe that’s how they’ve always been. Richie will take a few stumbling steps forward, half-assed and ready to pull back at any moment if Eddie doesn’t follow; and Eddie will take Richie at his word and yank him farther along, brave enough for the both of them. Eddie doesn’t let Richie get away with half-assing this, and at the end of the day, that’s what Richie needs in his life. Someone to notice him staring wistfully and grab him by the ear to pull him where he wants to go anyway. 

Eddie says, as sincere as ever, “Of course I _want_ to move in with you. I just haven’t really allowed myself to think about it as a possibility until recently.” 

He keeps walking down the sidewalk and Richie follows. 

Eddie continues, probably to himself as much as to Richie, “Obviously, I would need to tell Myra before. So the divorce needs to get finalized first. But we’re close, it’s just this thing with– she inherited some money from her parents so my lawyer is trying to get a better deal for me. Anyway, it’s boring. But I really think I could transfer my job here—I looked into our L.A. office a little this week—and I could keep my apartment in New York for when I visit my kids, and it is a _lot_ of traveling, maybe it wouldn’t work, but I don’t know, I–”

Richie starts laughing. He can’t help it. He’s happy, and Eddie’s on a roll, which is the funniest thing to him, when Eddie just _can’t_ stop talking. Eddie spins around, his face doing a few things at once—confusion, surprise, embarrassment, worry—all in his eyebrows. 

“You’ve really thought this through,” Richie explains. 

Eddie chews his lip. “Fuck, I’m doing it again.” 

“Doing what?”

Eddie seems distraught, his forehead a mess of wrinkles as his eyes go wide. He throws up his hands, ready to gesture. “Making, like, whole elaborate plans that involve you without even… talking to you. Like just deciding, ‘Oh, I’m gonna move in with Richie,’ and I’m like, researching a job transfer all week and– and– I don’t know, I’m _still_ doing this shit. The entire time, Richie, since the beginning, I’m always so focused on myself that I forget to even think about you or what you–”

“Oh my god, Eddie.” Laughing a little, Richie moves toward him, reaching for his arms. “How about, instead of monologuing about how self-centered you are, you ask me how I feel?” 

“Fuck off,” Eddie says gently, as Richie claps hands on both his shoulders, pushing down as if to keep him grounded. As if Eddie might go floating away otherwise. Eddie keeps his gaze down, staring at Richie’s chest. He mumbles, “So, would you want me to move in with you?”

“Yes, I would,” Richie answers. “I’m just surprised to hear that you’ve been thinking about it. I thought it would be farther down the road.” 

Eddie pulls him into a hug, moving quickly enough that Richie doesn’t have time to react. Richie finds himself with his hands uselessly at his side while one of Eddie’s anchors him, cradling the back of his skull. “You’re really, _really_ fucking wonderful, Rich,” Eddie says quietly. 

“Oh.” Richie slowly moves his arms to wrap around Eddie’s waist. He says, just to be a dick, “Thanks, buddy.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie says, squeezing him tighter for a second before he pulls back. “Anyway. I know we haven’t really discussed it but… Well. We’re discussing it now. I just… I don’t want to do that thing that I always did… with Myra, where I’d think through an entire conversation and make assumptions about what the other person would say without ever… actually talking. You know?”

“Oh, I’d love to know what your version of me says in our fake arguments.” Richie slings his arm around Eddie’s waist and steers them back onto the sidewalk to keep walking home. Hopefully his neighbors got a good show from their antics.

“Some pretty harsh shit, to be honest,” Eddie says darkly. “He’s always right though.”

“Hm. That doesn’t sound like me. Your characterization needs work.”

Eddie chuckles. “As long as we’re communicating, how come when you’re messing around you call me ‘baby,’ and when you’re being serious you call me, like, ‘buddy’ or ‘man’ or ‘dude’…” 

Richie turns sharply to look at him, smirking. “You want me to call you ‘baby,’ baby?” 

Eddie seems to realize his mistake. He groans. “Oh my god. Forget it.”

“No, come on, baby. I can call you ‘baby.’ Is that what you want, baby? All you had to do was ask.” Richie pokes at his side, and Eddie twists away, swatting his hand. “Baby.” 

Eddie’s cheeks are delightfully pink and the intensity of his glare could cut glass; Richie can’t stop smiling. 

“I forgot that you can’t be normal about anything.” 

“Been spending too much time with your fantasy version of me,” Richie says, chasing a scowling, speed-walking Eddie down his street, and as happy as he’s ever been. “What else does he say? Does he call you ‘baby’?” 

On Saturday morning, earlier than Richie would ever wake up by choice, both he and Eddie are roused from sleep by the sound of a phone harshly vibrating against the bedside table. Eddie grunts and reaches for it, his hand clattering first into Richie’s discarded glasses. He mutters, “Whoops,” before he grabs the offending phone. Richie turns away from him on the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, not ready to face the day yet. 

Eddie mutters, “Shit.” The phone stops vibrating as he answers it. “Myra, hi.”

Richie tenses, suddenly awake. It’s quiet, and he can hear Myra’s voice through the speaker, can make out most of what she’s saying. To start things off, she apologizes a few times. Then she mentions her boyfriend Ken’s mother, something happened with her, Richie can’t discern the specifics. Richie knows what it’s about, though—and, sure enough, she asks Eddie if he’d be able to take the kids for the night. 

Eddie sucks in a breath. “Well. I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m out of town, actually.” 

She repeats it back to him: “You’re out of town?” 

Richie rolls his eyes; he turns toward Eddie, shoulder bumping against his hip where he’s sitting up in bed. Richie finds this ridiculous and hopes he can communicate that through silent facial expressions. Eddie is allowed to go out of town on his weekends off without having to explain himself to his ex. Eddie doesn’t have to do these constant favors at the drop of a hat. Myra doesn’t need to abandon the kids for her new boyfriend. Neither of them should get into the habit of breaking their arrangement anyway. 

Maybe Richie’s narrowed eyes don’t communicate all of that. Eddie says, “Yeah, I’m out of town. I’m, uh. I’m in L.A., actually.”

Richie’s muscles tense so quickly he’s briefly worried he’ll get a cramp. He stares up at Eddie, his brain moving too slowly to do much else.

“Yeah,” Eddie says to Myra’s continued confusion. “I’m with– Richie. I’m sorry to tell you this way, but we’ve been dating for a couple months. I’m visiting him this weekend. I wish I could help, but it’s really short notice. Maybe you can get a babysitter or you could probably bring the kids with you– or–” 

Eddie stops when the silence on the other end of the line turns into a single _beep_. Call ended. He pulls away his phone to frown at it. He tries redialing and gets no answer. 

“Fuck,” Eddie says, plaintively, not panicked yet. 

Richie thinks ‘yet’ because his own stomach is dropping in dread. “Why’d you…?” 

That’s all it takes for Eddie to crack a little. He makes a fist around his phone and punches it down into the mattress between them. “ _Fuck_. Why’d I– why’d I tell her, you mean? I dunno, I thought, like, she’s dating someone else and she seems really happy so maybe it’s a good time– and, like, honesty–”

“Oh, _honesty_ ,” Richie mutters. 

“ _Fuck_.” Eddie brings both hands to cover his eyes, hunched over. 

Cautiously, Richie pats Eddie’s back, his bared spine like armor. Eddie lets him; he doesn’t move apart from breathing. 

The rest of the weekend is shot. Eddie spends all day Saturday stressing and trying to call Myra and trying to compose texts or emails to her to explain himself—read: dig a deeper grave—until Richie confiscates his phone. Eddie lets him, without complaint. Richie jokes about leaving it in a high place that Eddie can’t reach; he ends up putting it on top of the fridge, which they can both reach quite easily, but it’s the thought that counts. 

They didn’t have any real plans for the weekend. Eddie is flying out on Monday, and the plan was to spend three days curled up together, relaxed, and sequestered from their responsibilities. They both desperately needed a break. Unfortunately, real life found a way in through the cracks. Richie is glad that they got to have a special dinner—and a lot of good sex—on Friday. There’s probably not going to be more of that this visit. 

Saturday evening, while Richie sits at his kitchen counter and eats dinner, Eddie paces back and forth, not touching his own meal. 

“I really thought–” Eddie starts. He’s been speaking in mostly sentence fragments all day. Richie waits. “I mean, she can be pissed at me all she wants. But that doesn’t necessarily give her any… Like she can’t _do_ … anything…”

Eddie stops pacing to look at Richie, his wide eyes begging for reassurance. 

Richie nods. “Um, yeah. Probably.” 

Eddie doesn’t look very reassured. He turns on his heel to get moving again, raking his hands through his hair. “Fuck…”

“Hey, man.” Richie pats the barstool next to him. “Why don’t you sit down and eat for a second? There’s nothing you can do right now.” 

“I could call my lawyer.” Eddie’s eyes flicker to the top of the fridge. 

“No you don’t,” Richie says. “It’s Saturday. It’s, uh, after nine in New York. You don’t even want to know how much he’s going charge you for a phone call right now.”

Eddie groans and shakes out his arms. “Okay. You’re right.” He makes a fist with his right hand and slams it into his left palm a few times. 

“Hey.” Richie stands up and crosses the kitchen to the living room. He feels Eddie’s wary eyes on him. “I have an idea.” He picks up a square throw pillow from the couch and holds it out, in front of his chest. “Take out some of that stress.” 

Eddie’s brows shoot up then furrow again, skeptically. “Richie.”

“Come on.” Richie wiggles the pillow, holding it out further. “Let it all out so you can relax. There’s no way you’re gonna be able to sleep tonight.”

Eddie takes a few steps toward him, a reluctant smile breaking through. “Do you just want to see me throw a punch?” 

“You caught me.” Richie grips either side of the pillow and raises his eyebrows. 

Eddie chuckles and winds up. Richie braces, but the swing is harder than expected; his arms buckle from the force, and Eddie ends up socking Richie in the gut, buffered by the pillow. 

“Oh my god, Richie, I’m so sorry,” Eddie says immediately, any trace of a smile dropping from his face—along with most of the stress. 

“No, no, it’s good,” Richie wheezes. The pain fades fast; he just got the breath knocked out of him. 

Eddie takes the pillow from his hands and guides him to the couch, his eyebrows knit together in worry.

“That was kinda homoerotic,” Richie jokes as he’s pushed to sit down. “This might become a thing for me.”

“I hope not.”

“It’s just…” Richie curls up on the couch, holding his stomach, “…kinda hot how hard you can punch. You weren’t even _trying_. You don’t know your own strength. You’re like… um. Lennie from _Mice & Men_. Okay, bad example.” 

Eddie has his hands on his hips, surveying him, frowning. “I feel terrible.”

“But now you’re distracted worrying about me,” Richie points out. “Mission accomplished.”

Eddie grimaces. “Richie.”

“I’m _kidding_ ,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. “I’m actually fine, but if you want to spend the rest of the night doting on me, I won’t protest.”

Eddie smiles, finally, and nudges Richie’s legs aside to make room for him on the couch. 

Sunday is slightly more normal. Eddie is clearly still stressed, but he makes an effort to pretend that he isn’t. They get lunch with Bill and Audra, a nice distraction. On Monday morning Richie takes him to the airport. He still hasn’t heard from Myra, and now he has to spend all day traveling by himself, which is stress-inducing under the best of circumstances. Richie wishes him good luck as sincerely as possible.

“Let me know when you hear anything.” Richie leans to hug him over the center console. His car is idling in the drop-off zone. “And, like, call me any time. As always.” 

Eddie inhales deeply, nestled into the crook of his neck. “I will, thanks.” 

Richie pulls away and smiles. “I love you. Miss you already.” 

“I love you, too.” Eddie steps out of the car, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. He travels light these days, keeping most of what he needs at Richie’s place. “Bye.”

Richie gets back to work on Monday, after a much-needed break. The break wasn’t quite as refreshing as he’d hoped but he’s ready for a distraction. Throughout the day, he keeps an eye on the clock and mentally places Eddie. An hour into his flight now. Two, then three. Richie has a few meetings and then he grabs a late lunch with Bill. He tells Bill what happened, and makes him swear not to tell anyone else. 

“Wow,” Bill says solemnly, sitting across from Richie on a sidewalk patio. “And you were so close to getting away with it.” 

“Yeah.” Richie laughs bitterly. “I guess it’s karma. I just wish it didn’t have to hurt _him_ worse than it’s going to hurt me.” 

Bill nods and looks down; he streaks one finger through the gathering condensation on his water glass. His thoughtful frown morphs into a smile. “You’re both so fucking eager to die for each other.” 

Later that night, after 8pm, when Richie is home and sure he won’t hear anything from Eddie today, he gets a call. 

He turns down the volume on the show he was half-watching, sprawled across his couch, and answers. “Hey, what’s up?”

Eddie says, in a level tone that doesn’t put Richie at ease, “I just spoke with my lawyer.” 

Richie mutes the TV. “And… what happened?” 

“Well. It seems that Myra and her lawyer were quite busy over the weekend.” 

“That doesn’t sound good,” Richie says cautiously. 

“It’s not great,” he agrees, his voice still calm in the way that only a very-angry Eddie Kaspbrak can pull off. “They have this entire case against me, and it’s… very thorough. The affair is only the icing on the cake.” 

“Oh…” Richie’s ears are ringing. Obviously he knew all of this was coming, but it’s still terrible to be here, in this moment. He’s starting to sweat and shiver. “So…” He’s useless at the moment, but Eddie keeps going without much prompting. 

“They built this narrative that I’m unstable and untrustworthy, like. Exhibit A, I crash my car running a red light and then lie about going on a business trip and turn up unconscious in Maine. Not off to a great start. And you, don’t worry, you come up a lot. Exhibit B, I invite a strange man into my family’s home. There’s also– like– Richie, I still don’t know much about your sordid past to be honest, but there’s a reference to you being an alcoholic? Where the hell did _that_ come from?” 

He pauses long enough to necessitate an answer. Richie clears his throat and croaks, “My early stand-up veered into that territory, yes.” He also veered into that territory, off stage. Art imitates life and all that. 

“Oh, they did _research_ ,” Eddie says. “ _Wonderful_.” 

Richie can picture him pacing his hallway, wildly gesticulating. He can practically hear the air whooshing past his hands. 

“Then the money shot,” Eddie says, before quickly adding, “Don’t comment on my word choice, Richie, I swear to god, I’ll kill you— Exhibit C, the affair.”

“I mean… There’s not any _proof_ ,” Richie manages to say, because that’s still true. “Just because we’re together now doesn’t mean… anything happened before.”

“I don’t know,” Eddie says. “I really don’t know. And besides, like I said, that’s only a piece of this larger puzzle that spells out: I’m fucked. There’s also, like, an allegation that I have anger issues–”

“An _allegation_ ,” Richie mutters, slightly amused in spite of everything. 

“–and my lawyer was like, ‘You shouldn’t have moved out. You fucked yourself as soon as you moved out.’ Jesus Christ. I can’t win.”

Richie is quiet for a moment, breathing, listening to Eddie breathe. “So. What’s the goal of all this? Custody?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie answers flatly. “I mean, yeah, that’s the only thing that could really hurt me at this point, so… Message received.” 

He sounds so resigned to it; Richie’s heart sinks. “Shit. I’m… really sorry, but maybe there’s– I mean, you can fight back, right?”

“Yeah, my lawyer was pretty optimistic, actually, but I’m paying him so I don’t know what that means.” Eddie sighs. There’s some rustling, like maybe he’s laying down in bed or on his couch. “He said, ‘Well, there’s no way you’d lose visitation rights.’ Yeah, I mean. I fucking didn’t think so, but thanks for the reassurance. God. It’s my own fault, though. All of it. How can I be mad at anyone but myself?” 

There’s a moment of weighted silence before Richie finds his voice. “You can be mad at yourself all you want, but don’t give up, okay? I think– I’m really out of my depth here, to be honest, I’m going to do some frantic googling about divorce after we hang up but–”

Eddie chuckles. 

“–If you really think your kids will be better off with Myra having sole custody then I guess, don’t fight it. But… I don’t think that’s how you feel?” 

“It’s not,” Eddie agrees. He takes a deep breath, in and out. “I was just so goddamn close. Like, I really thought… I was starting to make all these plans, like thinking that I was going to move in with you and… I don’t know, hubris. For a moment, I _really_ thought it was all going to work out, after everything.” 

His voice wavers and breaks. It’s been a long time since Richie has seen or heard Eddie cry; his heart clenches. “Hey, Eddie, come on,” Richie says gently. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna get through this. You’ve survived everything else so far, right? You’re going to get divorced and you’re going to transfer your job and move in with me, and you’re going to have a hectic, insane life where you fly to New York twice a month to visit your kids. Right? And sometimes I’ll come with you. And we’ll stay in your shitty little apartment and I’ll try to win your kids over again, and it’ll be weird and awkward, and I’ll probably have to go back to doing stand-up because you can’t pass up material like that, but we’ll be so happy. Right?”

Eddie’s breathing hard through the phone as he fights to steady himself. He laughs, wet and shaky. “Yeah. Right. That sounds good.” 

He’s quiet for a moment. Richie sighs. “It’s late for you. Do you work tomorrow?”

Eddie snorts a laugh. “Fuck. Yeah. I’m gonna be a mess.”

“You should get some sleep.”

“I’m in bed.” There’s a long pause. Long enough that Richie pulls his phone from his ear to make sure he’s still on the call. Then Eddie says, “Would you… stay on the line with me? Until I fall asleep? Is that stupid?”

“No, not at all,” Richie says. He gets up from his couch to trudge upstairs. “I’m gonna go lay down too, it’s early here but… I’m tired anyway. You want me to just be quiet?” 

“Mm. I don’t know. Whatever.” 

Richie takes his phone with him as he brushes his teeth and gets into his pajamas and then settles into bed, groaning a bit as he straightens his spine against the mattress. He rotates his shoulders to bring his arms above his head and tilts his pelvis back, deepening the stretch.

Through the speaker, Eddie laughs softly. “Every time you lay down you’re like, ‘Ohhh, my back.’ You old geezer.” 

Richie laughs, curling toward his phone sitting on the sheets beside him. “Shut up. You’re supposed to be sleeping.” 

“Fine,” Eddie obliges. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Eds.”

—

Despite what Richie told him, not to give up, Eddie spends the next few days in a strange haze. There’s a part of him that’s relieved. Maybe that’s to be expected. He’s been carrying this huge secret for so long, and now that it’s exposed, it feels like a burden lifted. So maybe he doesn’t want to fight back, not if it means lying again. 

He spends the week in touch with his lawyer, and trying to dredge up any dirt he can use against Myra. It’s exhausting and largely unproductive. As the weekend approaches, he starts to worry about the status of his current arrangement, so he sends Myra a text on Thursday morning: _I’ll pick up the kids at my usual time tomorrow._

She doesn’t reply. He spends the entire workday stressing about it and finally, after dinner, he calls the house number. The landline, rarely used these days, but there’s a chance that…

Charlie answers. “Hello?” 

Perfect. Eddie smiles, relieved to hear her voice. “Hey, Charlie, this is Dad. How are you doing?”

“I’m good.”

“Good, good. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” 

“Right,” she confirms. “Do you want to talk to Mom?” 

“Yeah, is she around?” 

“Yep.” Her voice is more muffled, distant, when she yells, “Mom! It’s Dad!” 

Eddie waits, hearing Myra’s indistinct voice as she asks Charlie something. Then she picks up. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Eddie starts, going for friendly and nonchalant. “Did you get my text?” 

“I did,” she says, and then says nothing else.

“Okay… So. I’ll be there tomorrow at three.” He pauses and waits for her to object but she doesn’t. Okay, good. She can be mad at him, she can ignore his texts, but she can’t deny him the right to see his kids. But that’s not the only reason he called. “Can we talk for a minute?”

She says, “We should only communicate through our lawyers.”

“I know, but I’m not… I’m not angling right now, I’m not strategizing. I just want to tell you something and my lawyer would shit himself if he knew I was doing this, so stay on the line if that piques your interest.” 

Myra doesn’t say anything but she stays on the line. 

“Okay.” Eddie takes a deep breath. “Myra. The truth, the actual truth, is that I did cheat on you. With Richie.” 

“Is this supposed to be off the record or something?”

“No, not at all,” Eddie says quickly. “It’s only fair that you can use anything I say here however you see fit. If you want me to start over so you can record this, just say the word. Um. I did have an affair with Richie. It lasted only about a month and, if it’s any consolation, it made both of us miserable and he wouldn’t talk to me for a year after he went back to L.A., but… It’s the truth and I’m really, genuinely, sorry about how I handled… everything. That I treated you pretty, uh, terribly. And that I lied.” 

She’s quiet for a long few seconds. “Okay.” 

Eddie’s not sure what he was expecting; not forgiveness, that’s for sure. He waits a while longer before he says, “Well. I think I owed that to you.”

Then Myra says, “Don’t tell the kids about Richie.”

“What?”

“That you’re with him now. Don’t tell them.” 

Eddie bristles, but he tries to keep his voice level as he asks, “Why, you don’t want them to know I’m gay?”

“I don’t want them to know you cheated on me!” Her voice flares, and it’s almost a relief to hear the anger. Eddie knows where he stands of course—knows what Myra must be thinking and saying about him—but he’d always rather hear it to his face. 

He scoffs, defensive, and says, “I’m not going to tell them _that_ , obviously.”

“They’ll figure it out,” she argues. Her voice is hushed; maybe she’s shut herself into the master bedroom, finding some privacy. 

“That’s… possible,” Eddie admits. When they’re older, they’ll probably have some suspicions. Eddie’s prepared for that. “But Richie is going to be in my life, longterm, and my kids are going to know about him. They’re going to see him. I’m sorry. This isn’t negotiable to me. I’m…” Eddie stops himself before he reveals his plan to move in with Richie; moving across the country isn’t going to be a solid point in his favor on the custody front and he’ll only go so far with the self-sabotage. So instead he says, “I love him.”

Myra says, as bitterly as he would have expected, “Well, that’s great, Eddie. I hope you’re happy with your choices.” 

“I am,” Eddie says, smiling a little cruelly. “I hope you’re happy with Ken. Does he get to see the kids? Maybe we need to discuss that.”

“I don’t think we should speak directly to each other from now on,” she says, her tone clipped. “My lawyer warned me against this.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Eddie says, matching her tone. “Bye.” He hangs up before she returns it. 

For a minute, he sits with his elbows on the kitchen table and phone gripped between his hands. He taps it against his forehead a few times, eyes pinched shut. “ _Fuck_.” 

He slumps back against the chair. He feels… fine. He’s definitely going to need a strong drink to quell his racing mind, but that didn’t actually go much worse than he thought it was going to. Maybe the confession will come across as self-serving or manipulative, but he doesn’t think he’s in a worse position than he was ten minutes ago. 

He wants to tell Richie, but he’s also afraid of what Richie would say. So he hauls himself to his feet to go make himself a drink, leaving his phone facedown on the kitchen table. 

—

On Richie’s forty-fifth birthday, he’s in New York. He took a couple days leading up to the date to spend time with Eddie, who took some time off work, too.

The divorce was finalized a little over a month ago. Richie learned enough of the dirty details to develop a phobia of divorce, which is funny since he’s never come close to getting married. But all things considered, the whole ordeal didn’t take as long as it might have. Myra backed down from her initial position, and they settled on something only slightly less favorable than the terms of their separation. Eddie retained joint legal custody of his kids, and they returned to the twice-monthly arrangement. The financial stuff was a harder pill to swallow, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. Richie let him yell about it over the phone until he was exhausted, but ultimately Eddie would have agreed to anything to protect his higher priorities. 

Now, at least, it’s over. Eddie and Myra aren’t anywhere close to on good terms and, from the sound of it, the picking-up and dropping-off of kids is like a hostage hand-off. But—it’s over. It can’t get any worse now, which is an incredibly freeing feeling.

The only loose thread is Eddie’s kids. Happy coincidence that Richie’s birthday is on Friday and it’s a weekend that Eddie has the kids.

Richie has spent the week doing his homework. Everything short of flashcards. Charlotte—she goes by Charlotte now, as of a month or two ago—is twelve, and Frank is nine. Charlotte’s interests currently include texting her friends on her new phone and being annoyed with her dad (according to Eddie). Frank’s interests include gaming YouTubers, apparently. Richie isn’t sure what to do with that. Neither is Eddie. 

On Friday, Eddie plans to pick up his kids and then meet Richie at a nearby pizza place for an introductory dinner. They’re both really high-strung about it. Eddie has not come out to his kids as gay yet—“I’m gonna two-birds, one-stone it,” he said to a skeptical Richie—and Richie has only done the meeting-the-family thing a handful of times in his entire life. But this is a more complicated and high-pressure situation than when he was twenty-five and his then-boyfriend Robert brought him home for Thanksgiving and Richie ended up arguing with an uncle about the death penalty. 

Richie really wants this to go well. He’s already met Eddie’s kids, of course, but now it’s four years later and under significantly different circumstances. He knows they might have more complicated feelings about him now that he’s their dad’s boyfriend, instead of just the weird, goofy uncle. He wants this to go well for Eddie, too. He really doesn’t want to be a complication in Eddie’s life, or something that splinters the relationship between him and his kids. But he also knows that if he expressed that worry to Eddie, Eddie’s eyebrows would furrow at an angle that should be humanly impossible, and he would stroke Richie’s cheek and assure him that he would never blame Richie for that. That he needs Richie, and loves him. 

Richie is getting better at not being so fucking insecure all the time. 

But the two of them spend a solid hour deciding what to wear because their outfits keep ending up too similar.

“I don’t wanna be _that_ gay couple,” Eddie says, nose wrinkled. “In coordinated outfits. Ack.” 

“Well, we have limited options, buddy,” Richie says, unbuttoning the third shirt he’s tried.

“Oh, and please don’t call me ‘buddy’ or ‘dude’ or whatever in front of my kids.” 

Richie smirks. “What can I call you?”

Eddie isn’t in the mood for banter apparently. He says, “Nothing. My name.”

Richie holds up a different shirt for Eddie’s inspection. This one is thicker, flannel, solid gray-blue. It’s nice, one of his ‘TV shirts.’ Eddie hums and pinches the fabric between his fingers. 

“Yeah, I like this.” Eddie turns away. “Shit, I’m gonna be late.” 

Richie gets a booth at the restaurant and waits. There are four glasses of water sitting on the table, and four laminated menus. He bounces his leg incessantly and checks his phone every three seconds. He probably looks insane, like he’s waiting for his coke guy or– maybe like he’s waiting to meet the kids whose parents’ divorce he played a hand in precipitating. He's earned every ounce of this stress. He keeps opening Twitter only to close it before the app fully loads. 

He’s been sitting there for ten minutes when Eddie walks in. Richie has seen recent photos of his kids, so he knows what to expect. They’re both taller, of course. Charlotte’s dark hair falls past her shoulders, her bangs grown out now. Frank’s hair is a darker blond than it was when he was five; he wears small, blue wire-framed glasses. 

Richie meets Eddie’s eyes, and his face does a few things in quick succession. He looks happy and relieved, then anxious, then his eyebrows and mouth form a determined line that clearly says, ‘Let’s do this.’ 

As Eddie shepherds his kids to the table, Richie stands up. But twelve and nine year olds aren’t really in the habit of shaking hands upon meeting, and hugging them might be a bit much, so while they slide into the booth across from him, he sits back down into his seat. 

“Hey, Uncle Richie,” Charlotte greets him. Frank echoes, “Hi.” 

Eddie sits next to Richie and throws him a wide-eyed look. “I told you guys that it’s Richie’s birthday, right?” 

They both wish him a happy birthday without much enthusiasm. Richie smiles and accepts it. He glances to Eddie, ready to follow his lead. He figures there’s maybe a thirty percent chance Eddie will bail and not tell his kids tonight. And that’s fine. Eddie fiddles with the menu and starts negotiating a pizza order. They end up with two medium pizzas, one half plain cheese and half pepperoni. The other, a more ‘adult’ pizza with a smattering of veggies. They order sodas, and Richie reverts to childhood for a moment as he blows his paper straw wrapper across the table, in Frank’s general direction. 

Before the pizza arrives, Eddie glances at Richie, nods once, and then turns back to face forward. “So, Charlotte, Frank. I have something to tell you.” Eddie pauses as their attention falls on him. “Um. You know how your mom is dating Ken now?”

“Yeah,” Charlotte says. They both stare at him with suspicion.

“Well. I am also dating someone…” Eddie takes a long pause and chews his lip before placing his hand awkwardly on Richie’s shoulder, like they’re middle schoolers who have never touched before. “And the someone is Richie,” he concludes. “I’m dating Richie.” 

Richie nearly snorts a laugh. How long has Eddie been agonizing over this? And that was the best he could come up with? But he holds it back because he knows Eddie is more nervous than he’s ever been. As the eyes fall on him, Richie smiles awkwardly and gives a little wave of his hand. _Yes, kids, it is I. Your father’s boyfriend._

“So…” Charlotte’s face is serious, contemplating. Her eyes flicker back to Eddie. “Dad. You’re gay?” 

“Yes, I am.” Eddie’s shoulders slump in tangible relief. “If you have any… questions, you know, don’t hesitate to ask me.” 

Charlie, Frank and Richie all make a very similar face in unison; one of slight horror, that asks _What kind of questions?_

Eddie continues, “I just want to be honest with you guys.”

There’s a long moment of silence and something compels Richie to fill it. He leans forward, elbows on the shiny table, and says, “Just to fill you in– We’ve been together for… more than two years already. Huh. Wow. And, um, I live in L.A. California? You guys know geography, yeah?”

“Yeah, that’s in southern California,” Frank supplies. “Los Angeles. It means ‘angels’ in Spanish.” 

“Yes,” Richie confirms, pointing at him, like he’s correctly answered a Jeopardy question. “So your dad and I don’t live together or anything, but we talk on the phone a lot and we visit each other. And, you know, I think you guys are super cool so I’m really happy to spend time with you again.” 

Charlotte smiles, but looks maybe a little confused. Her front teeth cave in a bit, reminiscent of Eddie’s. 

“What?” Richie prompts, always ready to make a fool of himself if he can get a laugh. Even more so if he can break the tension. “I know that we’re just two old farts, but you guys are so cool. Charlie– Charlotte, I’ve really been slacking recently without you to keep me up to date on the latest trends. Can you teach me how to use TikTok?” 

Both the kids start laughing at that. “Make me into a meme!” Richie insists, gesturing at himself. 

They laugh harder when the waitress drops in on them, pizzas in tow. Richie settles back against the booth, face flushed, muttering thanks. He bumps into Eddie’s arm, thrown casually over the back of the booth; he glances to meet his gaze. Eddie’s eyes are crinkled and warm, so fond that Richie’s stomach flips. He smiles back at Eddie, a quick, ‘That wasn’t so bad, right?’

While they eat, Charlotte captures a few TikToks of Richie, eating pizza and drinking his Diet Coke, and she and Frank seem to think it’s the funniest thing in the world. 

“Is that gonna be, like, on the internet?” Eddie asks, leaning forward. 

Charlotte doesn’t seem to understand the question. Her head is bent over her phone, thumbs flying. “Um. Yeah.” 

“I’m gonna be a star,” Richie declares. “How many followers do you have?” 

She turns her phone to him; she has a few thousand, somehow. 

Later, after they’ve eaten their fill and after Charlotte has recorded the entire occasion for her fans, Eddie gets up to use the bathroom, patting Richie’s shoulder as he leaves. 

In his absence, Richie’s nerves set in again. He tries to remember himself at twelve; that was only a year before they fought It the first time, and he certainly thought he was grownup when that happened. Now that they’re alone, the laughter has faded and they’re both watching him, scrutinizing him.

So Richie acts on instinct and tries to make a fool of himself. He starts loading up a piece of pizza with as much powdered parmesan and red pepper flakes as possible, shaking both canisters at once. 

It only carries him so far. Charlotte says, “Uncle Richie.”

He winces slightly at the name, an uncomfortable holdover. “What’s up, kiddo?” 

“I was just thinking,” she starts, her mouth a serious line. “When I was, like, eight, and you were living with us…”

Richie– panics. His soda is half-full but he seizes on the opportunity to spring to his feet. “Hold that thought,” he says, the children staring up at him, wide-eyed. “I need to… get another drink.” 

He leaves the table, pulse pounding in his ears. Maybe he’s being a total idiot. Maybe Charlotte was going to ask an innocent question. But he’s not so sure. And he doesn’t want to have that conversation when Eddie isn’t around for it. If the kids want to ambush him, they’ll have to try harder than that. Richie flags down a waitress and asks for another water. He must seem desperate, because she drops what she was doing to get it for him right away. 

When he returns to the table, Eddie isn’t back yet, but neither of them say anything. They watch Richie as he slides into the booth with a second full glass of water, eyebrows raised. 

Well, whatever. They can think Richie’s a weirdo all they want, but he’s not about to confess to two preteens that he had an affair with their dad. They’re going to need to take that up with Eddie. 

Later, back at Eddie’s place, they gather in the living room to take a romp through Richie’s filmography. This time it’s a more recent cameo in _Trolls 2_. The movie was the kids’ choice, after Charlotte googled Richie on the drive home and started reading his Wikipedia page out loud. Slightly mortified, but happy enough to make up for it, Richie sits on the couch beside Eddie, his feet on the ottoman, to watch _Trolls 2_ for the first time. 

When the movie’s over, Charlie, sitting on the couch on the other side of Eddie, leans over to show them something on her phone. It’s her TikTok of Richie at the pizza restaurant, complete with jarring zooms and jump cuts and a bizarre soundtrack. It has over twenty-thousand views. 

“Holy shit,” Richie mutters, and Eddie doesn’t scold him for swearing. “Is that a lot? Like, I don’t understand this platform. Is that a lot or is it not a lot?” 

“She should do your PR,” Eddie says, smiling proudly at his daughter. Then his eyes flicker with a shadow of concern. “Is this, like… is this safe? What are you doing on here, are you talking to people?”

“Oh my god, Dad,” Charlotte says, tucking her phone away and out of sight. Her evasiveness is not particularly reassuring. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

After the movie, they have cupcakes for Richie’s birthday; big 4 and 5 candles are stuck in his. They sing to him, and Charlotte insists that he makes a wish. Richie spends too long thinking and the candles start dripping wax, so there’s a lot of anxious yelling at Richie to _hurry up and make a wish_. But it’s only his own cupcake that he’s ruining with his hesitance, so he gives it another second. 

Eddie lets the kids stay up too late; they’re squirrelly from the extra attention and the sugar. Finally, when they’re tucked in for the night, Richie and Eddie take turns in the bathroom before meeting in Eddie’s queen-sized bed. After Richie eases the door to the bedroom shut, he tugs off his pajama shirt—he rarely sleeps clothed anyway—and tosses it into the hamper. 

They both chuckle, relieved and exhausted, as Richie settles into bed. Richie does his usual groaning thing as he stretches his back, until he catches himself and stops. Eddie laughs for real now, rolling toward Richie to curl up next to him, hand splayed over his bare chest. 

“Your daughter put it together, I think,” Richie says. “She started to ask me ‘when you were living with us’ and I panicked and ran away. I mean, she’s twelve. I’m not gonna tell a twelve year old that I had an affair with her dad.”

Eddie twists to look at his face. “What? When did this happen?”

“At dinner! You were in the bathroom for a really long time, dude!” Richie protests. “Did you meet someone else?”

“Yeah, I’m leaving you.” Eddie lifts his head to kiss him, a couple quick pecks. He settles back down, dragging his fingertips in light patterns over Richie’s torso. “They’re going to figure it out someday, if they haven’t already. When they’re older, they’ll look back on those two months and realize that something was going on. And I… I don’t know. I’m okay with that. I just hope someday we can talk about it. If they have feelings about it, I don’t want them to keep it all bottled up.”

“Yeah, you’re very anti-bottling up,” Richie says, grinning. “That’s always been your style.”

Eddie snorts. “Is it so wrong to want my kids to be emotionally healthier?”

“Wrong? No. Unrealistic? Maybe.”

Eddie moves suddenly, propping himself up on an elbow so he can look Richie in the eye. “I feel really good, Rich. I’m relieved. No secrets. For the first time in like, five years. I think we’re out of the woods.”

“Yeah, baby,” Richie says, goofy but just fond enough. “You wanna celebrate?”

“What are you thinking?” Eddie asks, a smile spreading on his face.

“Let me take care of you.” Richie springs forward to kiss him, coaxing him down onto his back, leaning over him. Eddie’s hands trace up and down his sides as he scoots down further on the bed, to lie flat. 

When Richie grabs Eddie’s chin to tilt his face back and mouths at his exposed neck, Eddie gasps, wriggling under him. “Hm, ah,” he breathes. “I’m just– I don’t think they would at their age, but could you lock the door? That would be… unfortunate. I don’t think I could bounce back from that.”

Richie chuckles. He’d rather keep his remaining dignity in tact as well. “Sure thing.” He hops out of bed to click the lock and then returns, crawling back to straddle Eddie’s legs. 

With focused purpose, Richie starts with the drawstring of Eddie’s sweatpants, untying the looped knot. Eddie lies back with his hands folded behind his head; he lifts his hips to help Richie undress him but otherwise he stays passive, watching Richie with alert eyes. It turns Richie on more than he bargained for. The confident body language, how relaxed and trusting he is. How he would let Richie do whatever he wants. 

A while later, Eddie says, “I just remembered it’s your birthday.”

“Oh, thanks,” Richie mutters before he returns to sucking the skin of Eddie’s inner thigh while fondling his balls, squeezing lightly with his fingertips. 

“No, I mean, like…” Eddie lets out his breath and squirms. His fingers curl into the sheets at his side. “I should be treating you, right?” 

“This _is_ a treat for me,” Richie says, touching Eddie everywhere beside his cock. Neglected, it leaks onto his stomach, his t-shirt rucked up his chest. 

Eddie laughs, a breathy rush of air. “So I shouldn’t tell you to hurry up and suck my dick then?” 

“No, you can tell me whatever you want.” 

“You might not do it though?” Eddie is still joking around, not quite picking up on Richie’s meaning. 

He shifts his hips against the mattress to find some friction, alleviating his own aching erection. He says, “No, I’ll do it. I want you to tell me what to do. And I’ll do it.” 

The smile fades from Eddie’s face and his eyes flash dark. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Okay.” 

“But you’ll need to stay quiet,” Richie warns, grinning. There’s a glimmer of the old thrill in his words; be quiet, don’t be heard, don’t be caught. The line between secrecy and privacy. Something just for the two of them. 

Eddie picks up on it, smiling and rolling his eyes, ever so slightly. “You’ll need to be quiet, too. And I know that’s a hardship for you.”

“Oh, I can be quiet.” Richie digs his nails into Eddie’s thighs, one sharp bite. “I’ll be so quiet, just you watch.” 

Richie shuts up and fills his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More adventures in “All my OCs are actually crossover characters”: It’s important to me that you know that the basis of Myra’s new bf Ken is the minor, recurring character in the Breaking Bad/Better Call Saul verse who is known by the name on his mid-life-crisis-convertible’s vanity plates: KENWINS. He stands in line at coffee shops and speaks loudly on a bluetooth ear piece. He would be an easy mark for a con artist. Walter White blew up his car. That kind of thing.


	9. Chapter 9

The house looks the same. Richie isn’t sure what he expected. Maybe it shows the wear of the past five years in the pale siding and a few peeling shingles, but it seems unchanged from his memory. And it’s late fall again, the grass brown and dry. The trees barren in the front lawn, branches gray and gnarled. The neighborhood might look a little more welcoming in the summer, green and lush. But Richie has never seen the Kaspbrak house in the summer and he probably never will. 

In the driveway, next to Eddie’s Escalade, there’s a red sportscar, black roof pulled up. (“I can’t believe he drives that in November,” Eddie had grumbled when they approached the house.)

Eddie kills the engine and looks over at Richie, eyebrows knit together. “You don’t have to come in, you know.” 

“No, no, I’m going to. It’s fine.” Richie gives him a brave smile. “I’m not letting you go in there alone.” 

“Alright.” Eddie opens his door and Richie follows suit. “Let’s get this over with.”

Last on Eddie’s moving-to-L.A. checklist is picking up his remaining belongings, long-since packed into boxes at the family house. Everything else is taken care of: most of his apartment packed up in the back of the car; his job transferred to the L.A. branch. Eddie told Myra about the move a few months ago, and he pretended to be surprised when it led to a huge fight. Richie didn’t get a play-by-play—Eddie tends to be less detailed in his reporting of arguments that he feels he didn’t win—but his impression is that Myra had something to say about Eddie moving across the country to live with his boyfriend while still expecting to raise his kids. Richie can fill in the gaps for himself, and he’s glad Eddie didn’t tell him the brutal details. 

Richie follows Eddie to the door. Eddie pulls open the glass storm door to rap his knuckles against the painted-red wood, beside the fogged window. He shoots Richie a couple quick glances while they wait. Footsteps approach and then the door swings open. 

Myra is standing there, one hand on her hip, the other on the door, and glaring at them like they’re a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses. 

“Hey,” Richie says, and immediately regrets it. 

Her eyes move to meet Richie’s and he shrinks back a little. For a moment, he feels like he’s back in the hospital in Derry, helplessly in love with his best friend. His comatose best friend, whose wife has refused all other visitors on his behalf. Myra glares at him now with the same amount of venom. But this time, it hurts a lot less. 

Then a rather cruel thought crosses Richie’s mind and it’s: _I won_. 

He doesn’t _love_ that thought, but it does rally his spirits enough to shoot her a smile that’s only half disingenuous. She looks away quickly, unable to return it, and back to Eddie. 

“Well, come in,” she says shortly, turning away.

Eddie throws another glance at Richie; this one has an edge of amusement to it. Richie lets his smile soften and follows him over the threshold. 

The inside of the house is not the same. In fact, there are lots of small tweaks everywhere, as if Myra was trying to change as much about her surroundings as possible. The walls of the kitchen are painted a light forest green now instead of the previous periwinkle. The dining table is turned parallel to the sliding glass doors instead of perpendicular to them. The furniture in the living room is the same, but rearranged. The chair and couch have switched places. There’s a new rug. 

Richie is surprised to find how many details he remembers, but suddenly everything rushes back. He lived here for two months, and they were some of the most emotionally charged days of his life. While they pass the hallway bathroom, the door half ajar, his skin prickles. 

Once they reach the kitchen, Richie finally gets a glimpse of the owner of the BMW parked in the driveway. Ken stands up from the table to shake Eddie’s hand, then Richie’s. 

“Nice to meet you, Rich,” Ken says. His grip on Richie’s hand is as aggressive as his eye contact. His hand is warm and a little sweaty. He wears a broad green tie and an ill-fitting suit. (Richie has been trained—by Eddie—to recognize ill-fitting suits.) He must have left work early to be here, specifically as back-up for Eddie’s visit. Richie can’t blame Myra for that, since Eddie also wanted a chaperone. 

When Richie takes a step back from Ken there’s a beat of silence. Everyone else in the room is roughly the same height; Richie feels like a giant. He consciously stoops. 

“So, where are Frank and Charlotte?” Eddie asks. “It’s… quiet in here.” He chuckles.

Myra doesn’t smile. “They’re not home, they’re both at a friend’s house.” 

Eddie blinks. He shifts his weight on his feet. “Oh. I thought they would be here.”

Myra says, “Sorry if you were expecting a buffer.”

Eddie scoffs. Richie consults his Eddie’s anger version of the universal pain scale; he’s clocking in at a three right now. Maybe a four. No intervention necessary, but he’ll closely monitor. Eddie says, “Myra, come on. I wanted to see them. That’s why I waited until after school to do this. You didn’t even tell them I was coming today, did you?”

Ken and Richie both stand by, examining the linoleum tile floor of the kitchen. It’s spotlessly clean, all the way to the corners. 

“I guess you’ll have to wait until your next visit,” Myra says, and she apologizes again without a shred of remorse. “Sorry.” 

Eddie takes a half step forward and he’s pointing at her, and he’s either a five or a six now. “I know you think you can–”

Richie intervenes—with a firm hand on Eddie’s shoulder, pulling him back, and by saying, loud and cheery, “So, boxes.” Eddie droops under the touch; both Myra and Ken’s eyes fall on the point of contact. “Where are they?” 

“Basement,” Myra tells him. With visible effort, she tears her eyes away from Richie’s hand where it clutches Eddie’s shoulder. 

“Great, we’ll just grab those and…” Richie tugs Eddie backward, toward the stairs to the basement storage. “Be on our way.”

Eddie finally gives up; he turns around and hurries ahead of Richie, feet pounding the stairs as he descends. Richie catches up with him where he’s standing in front of a shelf, staring blankly at the assortment of cardboard boxes and Rubbermaid bins. A few are marked with ‘EK’ in bold Sharpie so it’s obvious which are his, but Eddie doesn’t make a move to grab them.

“I can’t believe her,” he says, his voice low and seething. 

“Yeah, well.” Richie is sympathetic, but he’s heard it all before. And he _can_ believe it. And this is not the place for the conversation, anyway. He grabs two boxes from the shelf, tucked under his chin. “Let’s get out of here.” 

Richie starts climbing the stairs but Eddie doesn’t follow, staying in the basement and sorting through the boxes. Richie approaches the front door with full arms and frowns. Just as he’s trying to hook his elbow around the door handle, Ken appears.

“Here, let me–”

“Thanks,” Richie mutters, and again when he holds the door for him. “Thanks.” 

When he returns to the house, Ken is still loitering in the hallway so Richie gives him a quick smile as he passes. 

Ken asks, “You’re driving all the way to L.A.?”

“Yeah, I’ve done it before, back when…” Richie trails off. His heart thuds in his throat. He glances down the hallway where Myra is standing and makes brief, regrettable eye contact with her. “Yeah, I did it once before. Anyway, Eddie’s job doesn’t start for two weeks and I have some time before we start shooting, so… vacation.”

“I don’t like driving long distances,” Ken says, as if Richie asked. Myra agrees with him. “A whole lot of this country is just… nothing.”

“Those are the best parts,” Richie argues. “Finding some weird roadside diner with sticky menus and a waitress who smokes a cigarette _while_ she’s taking your order, but they have three dollar burgers that are better than anything you’ve ever tasted? Like, that’s what it’s all about.”

There are a few long seconds of silence. His audience stares at him, unimpressed with the anecdote. Where the _hell_ is Eddie? Richie clears his throat.

Myra says through a tight smile, “Well. I’m sure you’ll have quite the adventure.” 

Richie knows what she really means is ‘fuck you.’ He knows this WASPy type of arrogance, passive-aggression. He never inherited it from his parents, but he knows it well. Eddie seems to have adopted it later in life, even though it was never his birthright. 

So, Richie smiles right back at her. He’s no stranger to being disliked. He’s comfortable with it, most of the time, as long as it’s mutual. He’s a formerly-hotheaded comedian after all; having a few enemies is part of the gig. So he could sit here and happily push Myra’s buttons all day, goad her into calling him a homewrecking slut or whatever she probably wants to get off her chest (he bets he could stir up some homophobia if he really tried)—and he would ask her how she never realized her husband was gay (maybe she’s not used to men being attracted to her?) and if she enjoys using the kids as hostages to get what she wants. And he would savor every second of it. The fantasy argument that unfolds in Richie’s head is immensely satisfying.

But Richie isn’t the only factor in this equation. He can’t make things worse for Eddie, so he just keeps smiling and nods toward the basement door. He retreats down the steps to grab another armful of boxes.

Two more trips up the stairs, and a few more veiled insults, and they’re driving away again. Eddie fumes at the wheel, flicking on his turn signal with aggression. 

“At least we got to spend the weekend with them,” Richie says, meaning the kids. 

Eddie sighs, tense. He brakes too hard at a red light. “Yeah…” 

After a final brief stop at Eddie’s apartment—to make sure all the lights are turned off, and the empty fridge unplugged (he’ll be back next month)—they hit the road. Eddie takes the first driving shift and Richie unveils his road trip playlist. There’s a lot of traffic as they bypass Manhattan; the sun sets at a low winter angle that glares perfectly off the blacktop. Periodically, Eddie grumbles about how they could have been on the road hours ago if Myra had told him the kids wouldn’t be home. 

“Could’ve been ahead of all this traffic,” Eddie says. He’s driving more aggressively than usual, too heavy on the gas for the stop-and-go speed. They make a couple more jerking moves forward. Someone in a Camry tries to merge in front of Eddie, but he doesn’t make room. 

“You’re going to fit right in in L.A.,” Richie tells him. “Your car’s a better fit, anyway. I still can’t believe you drive this tank around Manhattan.” 

Eddie smiles a little, looking straight ahead. “I’ve driven in L.A., Richie. Quite a lot, actually.”

“How does it compare?” 

Some of his grumpiness softens as Richie forces him to consider which metropolitan area’s hellish traffic he prefers. “It’s more freeway driving,” he says finally. 

Richie prompts, “Is that better or worse?”

“It’s… neutral.” 

The sun dips below the horizon before the traffic clears. Eddie calms down a bit, one hand on top of the steering wheel and the other tapping his thigh. They have no specific plans for the road trip. They have some wishlist items and a basic timeline, but they have about twelve days and twenty-seven hundred miles ahead of them to fill however they want. Richie realizes they haven’t spent this much uninterrupted time together—ever—and the thought excites him as much as it makes him nervous. 

For now, he’s determined to turn Eddie’s mood around so they can start off on the right foot. Richie has a few go-to tricks for that but the oldest and best is: to be as obnoxious as possible. 

So Richie turns his head toward Eddie and stares at him until Eddie can’t help but smile. 

Eddie doesn’t look at him, though, when he asks, “What do you want, Rich?”

“You ever had roadhead?” 

Eddie’s mouth jumps into a grin for a second before he gets a handle on himself. “No, can’t say I have.”

“Sorry, I guess that was kind of cruel to ask. I can’t really picture Myra leaning over and–”

“Richie,” Eddie says with a long-suffering sigh.

“But maybe your other girlfriend was–”

“Richie,” he says, a bit sharper, but he’s smiling. He rubs his hand over his mouth and when he pulls it away, he’s straight-faced again.

“Sorry, you’re just sexy when you drive,” Richie says. “It gives me ideas.”

Eddie’s hand flies back to his mouth but not before Richie catches the twitch of a reluctant smile. “I’m just driving,” he says. 

But from then on, his posture is looser, his left-handed grip lax on the steering wheel, his right elbow lazy on the arm rest, fingers splayed on his own thigh. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

The third day of the trip is Eddie’s forty-sixth birthday. That morning they wake up in a Motel 6 outside of Dayton, Ohio. The rules of the road trip are: no reservations, just drive, and sleep and eat wherever they can. Richie expected Eddie to cave on these points pretty quickly, but he’s surprisingly game. Or maybe Richie is still underestimating him. He wrinkled his nose a little when the edge of the motel bedspread touched his face last night, but he didn’t say anything about it—until Richie pestered him about it, just to be an asshole. (“You know they wash the sheets between visitors, right?” “I’m not so sure about the comforters,” Eddie argued, plucking the scratchy top layer between two fingers. “I don’t think they wash these.”) 

In the morning, Richie gives Eddie his choice of breakfast. The highway oasis contains a Waffle House, a Perkins and a Starbucks. After a moment to mull it over, Eddie decides on the Perkins for breakfast and the Starbucks for coffee before they hit the road. 

“No Waffle House?” Richie asks. 

“No Waffle House,” Eddie confirms. “Not today.” 

Give it a few more days, then. Richie will convince Eddie to go to Waffle House before their cross-country tour is over. 

They’re back on the road by mid-morning. Richie is driving now, and when they stopped for gas he grabbed a Redbull on top of the latte he already had from Starbucks and the diner coffee he had at Perkins. Eddie admonished him for his caffeine habits—as if he isn’t a stimulant junkie himself—and Richie told him, one, to lay off, since Richie had recently quit smoking, and two, that Eddie’s anti-energy drink stance is ‘classist.’ Eddie told him to go fuck himself. 

So they’re having a good day. 

It gets better when Richie grins and glances over to Eddie to say, “You know, I’ve never had roadhead, either.”

Eddie, always the wildcard, immediately frees himself of the shoulder strap of his seatbelt and leans over, his hands finding the fly of Richie’s jeans.

The car swerves from Richie’s resulting surprise. “Holy shit, Eddie, I was fucking joking.”

Eddie slows, but doesn’t stop. He pulls Richie’s shirt up and out of the way. “Do you want me to stop?”

Richie blinks a few times, his gaze flickering between the road ahead—quiet, straight and flat; actually not a bad place to do this, which must have spurred Eddie’s sudden action—and Eddie’s hands, pulling at the sash of his seatbelt. “Uh. No. Don’t stop.” 

Eddie pulls the seatbelt higher on Richie’s waist, and makes quick work of his zipper. Richie wiggles in his seat, chuckling nervously, and helping Eddie with one hand. “Eyes on the road,” Eddie says.

“Yessir,” Richie says, grinning like an idiot as he snaps his head back up. “Is this what you wanted for your birthday?”

“Turn on cruise control, idiot,” Eddie says by way of answer. “You’re gonna kill us, you’re dropping speed.”

Richie glances dumbly at the various buttons on the steering wheel. Until yesterday he had never driven Eddie’s car and he didn’t ask for much of an orientation. The dashboard seems to have as many controls as an airplane. “Uh. How do I–?”

Eddie sighs. His lack of patience is immensely satisfying to Richie. “I can’t believe you’ve been driving this entire time without cruise control.”

Eddie elbows one of his hands out of the way, and Richie says, “You know, people who are like, really into driving and cars and that shit don’t like cruise control. I’ve heard that.”

“Oh, you’ve heard that?” 

Without ceremony, Eddie finds the button on the steering wheel, and stabs it with one finger. Richie feels the engine engage; he takes his foot off the pedal to plant flat on the floor. The car doesn’t drop speed. Then Eddie clicks it up a few times; the engine revs and settles out at 75. There’s something about that alone that gets Richie most of the way hard. Then Eddie licks his lips and bends down, and that gets him the rest of the way there.

Richie has a few thoughts pass through his mind. One, the beginning stage of a blowjob isn’t particularly distracting so, honestly, it’s stupid _not_ to do this while driving. What’s there to lose? Two, this would be better—although more distracting—if he had pulled down his jeans and underwear. Eddie doesn’t have access to his full length but— Three, Eddie is really giving this his all, _fuck_. 

Okay, the pleasant-but-non-distracting phase has passed. Richie rubs his right hand down Eddie’s back, pulling up the hem of his shirt, to rake his nails over his skin, up to the beginning of the scar. He’s more gentle with the skin there, pressing with the pads of his fingertips. “God, Eds…” 

Eddie says, his voice hoarse, “Hands on the wheel,” and sinks back down. 

Richie shudders and does as he’s told. As he drives—which, at this point is nothing more than aiming the car straight down the interstate—he steals a couple glances down, to where the muscles of Eddie’s back flex under his shirt, and his head bobs. One of Eddie’s hands is wrapped tight around the base of Richie’s dick, and the other grips his knee. 

In the distance, Richie sees: “Oh, shit, there’s a car coming.” 

Eddie hums but he doesn’t stop or look up. It’s lucky the road is as empty as it is. Richie thinks about passing more cars like this, if they could glance inside and see Eddie sprawled out horizontal, his head in Richie’s lap. 

“This is a game-changer… I’m really getting off on this,” Richie says, stupidly.

Eddie snorts—well, it’s more of a short exhale through his nostrils that Richie feels cool against his saliva-wet dick—and Richie can almost hear the words: _Yeah, that’s the point_.

His hips strain against the seatbelt, tight on his lower abdomen. He squirms in his seat but he can’t move that much. Eddie’s grip moves higher on his thigh. As the approaching car draws nearer, Richie gives a forced-casual smile and a little wave of his hand. The other driver doesn’t even look at him.

“Fuck,” Richie says. He swallows back the spit collecting in his mouth. He moves one hand to Eddie’s head, fingers threading in his hair and for a moment, Eddie lets him set the pace. Richie’s mouth falls open, chest heaving; he reminds himself not to close his eyes. He’s probably going to be turned on from the sight of cornfields for the rest of his life now, _thanks, Eddie_. 

Then Eddie’s head rears back and he says, “Both hands on the wheel, or I’ll stop.”

Richie groans. “Yes, _sir_.” He’s only being a little bit facetious. “If only driver’s ed was like this, I might’ve passed my test the first time. My hands are at ten and two.”

Eddie pulls off just long enough to say, “No, supposed to be nine and three. Gonna break your wrists.”

“What?” Eddie doesn’t elaborate since his mouth is otherwise occupied; Richie’s head knocks back against the headrest. “Oh, fuck– _You’re_ gonna break my wrists, what the _fuck_.”

Eddie is enthusiastic and sloppy, in the way he gets when he’s a little bit annoyed at Richie. Like he’s so attracted to Richie that it makes him angry, like he wants to eat him alive; Richie will gladly keep bugging the shit out of him forever if it means Eddie Kaspbrak blowing him while he drives down a deserted, rural highway in Indiana. It doesn’t get better than this.

Richie is an experienced driver. He’s a good driver, even. He’s also experienced with orgasms. In fact, he’s been having them longer than he’s been driving. Putting the two together will probably be fine. He knows, basically, what his body is going to do. It can’t be much worse than sneezing while behind the wheel, and he’s done that plenty of times. Still, when his orgasm starts building low in his gut, a brush of fear stirs in his chest. But Richie has a complicated relationship with fear and risk, so, of course, that only sends him hurtling closer to the edge. He whines in the back of his throat, curling his toes inside his shoes. 

Eddie knows when he’s close, and he knows what Richie wants when he’s close; no more teasing, no more tongue tricks. Consistency, pressure, and speed. Eddie delivers. 

While Richie really starts to unravel, he thinks: They’re driving _home_. With every mile of road beneath them, every hour and minute and second, they’re getting closer to their new home, _together_. How did he get this lucky? 

Leave it to Richie to get weepy while getting roadhead. That doesn’t help the seeing situation; the straight, flat road in front of him blurs in his watery eyes, like he’s entered a downpour. He grips the wheel harder. But even through his swimming vision, he catches it when Eddie brings his hand to the fly of his own jeans, desperately pulling at the button and grinding into his palm. That does it.

Richie’s knees jump when he comes, without warning, into Eddie’s mouth. His eyelids slam shut for a second longer than is safe or comfortable; his fingers curl on the steering wheel. He forces his eyes open, relieved to see that he’s still—mostly—in his lane. The road ahead is still—mostly—empty.

Eddie sits up, his hair disheveled and cheeks pink. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, throat working, grimacing a little. He takes a few swigs from Richie’s open, lukewarm Redbull—the fucking hypocrite—and grimaces harder. Then he catches a glimpse of Richie’s face. “Oh, shit, are you crying?”

“Yeah, I’m crying a little,” Richie says, laughing at himself.

“Maybe we should pull over,” Eddie suggests.

“Oh, _now_ we should pull over? You maniac.”

Eddie smiles. “That good, huh?”

Richie thinks maybe he should take the easy out and say, _Yeah, man, you sucked my soul out through my dick_ , because it’s not untrue, but instead he goes for honesty, however embarrassing it may be. “I was thinking about how we’re going home. Like, every second on this trip, we’re get closer to being home… together. And I’ve…” Richie sniffs, chuckles again. “I’ve never lived with someone who I… You know. Who I love as much as you.” 

Eddie’s face flicks through several emotions like a slide projector. Richie doesn’t catch all of them. Then Eddie turns to flop back against his seat. “Shit, you’re gonna make me cry. Mind if I jerk off?”

Richie barks a laugh. The duality of man. “I would mind if you didn’t.” 

“Keep your eyes on the road, though,” Eddie says, and he sounds like he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He loosens his seat belt and shifts his hips to pull his jeans down far enough. Richie sneaks a couple glances at him and his heart pounds in his throat thinking about Eddie’s bare ass on the leather seat. 

“We could pull over.” He swallows around his tongue, it feels thick in his mouth. _I could put my hands all over you, suck you off. On the side of the road. It would only take a minute_. 

Eddie shakes his head. “No. Eyes on the road.” 

“You’re a terror,” Richie tells him, snapping his head back to face forward. “You’re way too into this.” 

So Richie sits there, squirming in his seat, watching the rapid pumping of Eddie’s hand out of the corner of his eye. Eddie throws his head back against the headrest and groans. Richie can’t tell if Eddie’s playing it up for his captive audience, or if he’s actually just this sexy. 

“If I get hard again, we’re pulling over,” Richie tells him. “I’m finding a gas station and we’re doing, like, trucker roleplay.” 

Eddie barks a laugh. “Trucker roleplay?” 

“Yeah, it’s lonely out on the road,” Richie says in a southern drawl. “I need a warm body against me. It’s been weeks since I last seen my wife.” 

Eddie laughs and tells him to shut up, but as he says it, he reaches for Richie’s right hand. He guides it from the steering wheel to his hard and leaking cock. 

Richie swallows, throwing a quick glance at Eddie, while Eddie encloses his hand around Richie’s. It’s a bit of a stretch to reach—the seats are far apart because this car is nothing if not roomy—and the angle is awkward, but Richie doesn’t have to do much. Eddie moves his hand for him, his slick fingers entwining with Richie’s. 

“What happened to keeping my hands on the wheel?” Richie chides. 

“Just drive.” Eddie doesn’t sound as admonishing as he must want to; he’s breathless, eyes closed. 

“I wasn’t planning on stopping.” Richie smiles, keeping his right arm loose, and feeling quite smug. Enjoying that Eddie wants Richie’s hand on him. Enjoying the idea of Eddie using him to jerk off. 

“You know,” Richie says then, an idea sparking as his skin heats. “I was thinking. This trip, we have an opportunity ahead of us. We should make a bucket list.” 

“Of what?” 

“Things to see, places to go… Places to fuck.” 

Eddie’s left hand moves to grip Richie’s forearm. He exhales heavily and asks, “Like where?” 

“Well, we can check off the car. And the Motel 6. Like the classy bitches we are. What about a gas station bathroom next?” 

Eddie coaxes Richie to tighten his fingers, and speeds up the pace up as he starts panting. He spreads his legs wider on the seat, angling his hips up. 

“You’re so predictable, Eds,” Richie says, grinning. “For all your whining about germs, you just wanna get fucked in a filthy public bathroom, don’t you?” 

Eddie gasps, his hips making abortive little thrusts into their clasped hands. When Eddie’s close, he holds Richie’s hand, palm cupped around the head of his dick, while his other hand furiously works his shaft. 

Eyes tracking between the windshield and Eddie, his face screwed up and body tense in pre-release, Richie babbles, “Yeah, don’t worry, baby, I’m gonna catch all your come, won’t let any get on your nice leather seats, or your expensive jeans that you’re wearing for some reason even though we’re in the car all day–” 

Eddie comes, his hips jerking against the restraint of the seatbelt as he pulses into Richie’s hand. 

“There it is,” Richie says, feeling warm and buzzed. 

Eddie collapses against the seat while Richie makes good on his word, turning his curled hand palm-up. Eddie starts to say, “I have tissues,” but Richie brings his hand to his mouth to start licking it clean. 

This isn’t really Richie’s _favorite_ thing to do—at least not when he’s already come himself. But it’s all worth it for the way Eddie stops speaking mid-word, like his brain has gone offline. His eyebrows twitch as he watches Richie, his face a complicated mix of disgust and arousal.

When he’s done, Richie wipes his damp and sticky hand on his jeans. Eddie’s eyes follow his every move.

“I guess we can skip lunch,” Richie says mildly. 

After a beat, Eddie guffaws, laughing so hard it sounds like he might choke. He throws his head back against the seat again, in a different kind of ecstasy. “That’s disgusting,” he manages to say. “And besides, I’m hungry.” 

“Even after you made a meal of my dick?” 

“You were the one literally– _lapping_ – my come out your hand like a–” 

Richie cuts in, “ _That’s_ disgusting.” 

Eddie protests, throwing his hands up, “You’re the one who _did_ it.” 

“You love disgusting,” Richie says. “I’m doing this because you get off on it. So it’s your fault.” 

Eddie doesn’t argue with that, but he pouts for a moment. Then he starts laughing again, more of a soft, amused chuckle this time. He sounds a little delirious, mostly happy. “God, I can’t believe us sometimes. Are we gonna hit a wall someday when we’re, like, fifty and become boring and sexless?” 

“Nah, you already spent too much of your life being boring and sexless,” Richie says. “That’s why you’re such a depraved lunatic now. Risking vehicular manslaughter for some dick.” 

Eddie laughs, the quiet aftershocks racking his shoulders. He turns his head toward the window to stare at the passing fields. “Put that on my headstone,” he mutters—and now it’s Richie’s turn to crack up, once again endangering their lives as he buckles under laughter. 

—

On day eight of what Richie has dubbed the ‘Fuck Across America Tour,’ they’re at a Holiday Inn in New Mexico. It’s been going well; they spent some time exploring St. Louis, and continuing along Route 66, they’ve found plenty of weird and hilarious roadside attractions. 

At one such attraction, the ‘Cadillac Ranch’ in northern Texas, Richie captured a candid photo of Eddie, standing in front of a Stonehenge of half-buried cars, the upright tail ends painted vibrant colors. He was confused by the display, and by how popular it was, and all of that came across via the scowl on his face. In the photo, he had a hand raised to block the sun, exposing his bicep where his t-shirt sleeve gaped. 

Richie really liked the photo. Standing around in the dusty roadside pullout, he asked Eddie if he could post it to his Instagram. 

“Um, yeah,” Eddie had said, shrugging. “Sure.” 

“I just ask because…” Richie trailed off, his eyebrows doing something meaningful. 

“Yeah, I know,” Eddie said quickly. “It’s fine.” He figured there was no reason to not become Richie Tozier’s mystery man at this point. His ex-wife knew; his kids knew; their friends knew. They were moving in together. 

An hour later, while they drove, Richie revealed that his fans also really liked the picture. Eddie, at the wheel, took a few glances at the screen while Richie scrolled the comments. There were a lot of incomprehensible emoji that seemed… horny. 

“The gays approve,” Richie said, waggling his eyebrows. 

“You have gay fans now?” 

“Yeah, they found me.” 

Eddie was amused and flattered by the attention. And he liked the idea of being publicly tied to Richie, even if he’s nothing more than an unnamed face in a couple photos on his social media. The mystery is kind of appealing, in a way. Eddie must be someone special if he snagged Richie, huh? It feels that way. 

Now, Eddie is in bed with Richie. It’s one of the nicer beds so far, fluffy white pillows and fresh-smelling sheets. Or at least they smelled fresh when they first rolled into bed an hour ago. Now everything is vaguely damp and sweaty. They’re both taking a scroll through their phones, catching up on messages and notifications. 

Richie verbally notates a couple email responses to his agent, which is endearing: “Christian comma… Um. Uh, fuck.” 

Eddie snorts a laugh. “Send.”

“No, no, shut up, I forgot… what I was gonna say…”

While Richie figures out how to reply, Eddie sends a couple photos from the day to his daughter. She texts him back almost immediately: _Cool!_

He exchanges a couple more messages with Charlotte, about her day, and her plans for the rest of the week. He asks if he can call her sometime tomorrow. She agrees and says goodnight. The exchange leaves Eddie with a yawning sadness in his chest. Things aren’t going to be that different than they were before. Not in any real way. But they’re going to feel different. Eddie can already feel the distance. His unavailability in each of the miles between them. 

He sighs and drops his phone to his chest. “Am I doing the right thing, Richie?”

Richie is only quiet for a moment. His thumbs pause before he finishes typing something. “It’s a little late for second thoughts.”

“I keep thinking, what if there’s an emergency,” Eddie continues. “Or things like… sports games, or whatever, I can’t just casually go to their events. I’ll have to fly across the country.” 

“Do your kids play sports?”

“No… but they might.”

“Eddie, I’m–” Richie starts, and his voice sounds tense enough that Eddie glances over to him, alarmed. He’s staring up at the ceiling. His phone rests against his own naked chest, hands folded on top of it. “Why are you asking me this? You want me to reassure you? You want me to talk you out of it?”

“I– I was just… Sorry,” Eddie says. “I was just thinking about it, I guess.”

There are a long few seconds of silence; Richie lets out a breath and his chest sinks into the mattress. “I gotta say, I don’t love it when you unload all your doubts onto me. It kinda sucks. I wish you had someone else to talk to about this. Like, anyone else. You do this thing like, ‘Oh, I’m struggling with this decision,’ and it’s decisions that are about me, basically, and that just makes me feel shitty. Like, what do you want me to say? You put me in this position of having to reassure you and it makes me feel selfish and I’m always left wondering where I stand with you. And honestly, I’m really fucking tired of it.” Richie huffs a little and crosses his arms, still staring straight up. His jaw juts forward. “This was supposed to be…” he trails off, shaking his head. 

Eddie swallows. This is the longest period of time they’ve spent together, continuously, every hour of every day. And this is the first time on this trip that there’s been any tension beyond their usual bickering over radio stations or which fast food drive-through to visit.

“Hey, Richie. I’m really sorry.” 

Richie doesn’t look at him, doesn’t cave to the apology as quickly as he usually does. 

“You’re right, it’s not fair to put you in this position.” 

“Yeah, you keep… doing it, though.” 

Eddie nods slowly. 

“Look, I _never_ asked you to move in with me,” Richie says, slashing a hand through the air for emphasis on the ‘never.’ “I have never put any pressure on you. This is your choice. So, just– I don’t know. Act like it.” He seems to run out of steam. He pauses and rubs the heels of his hands over his eyes. “I think I’m just ready to be home. Can we… I know we were planning on the Grand Canyon and stuff, but I’m sorry, I’m…” 

Eddie says, carefully, “Yeah, thanks for, um. Thanks for saying that, Richie. I’m… I am sorry.” 

“Yeah, okay, I’m gonna sleep.” Richie turns onto his side and goes silent. 

Eddie stares at his back for a while, the pale expanse of his skin. Eventually he turns onto his side to face away from Richie and shifts the blanket up to his neck. Richie moves too, pulling the sheets up to cover his own body. Eddie wallows for a while before he falls asleep. It’s not very productive wallowing. He’s getting hung up point number one, which is ‘You’re a real piece of shit, you know that, right?’ His supporting evidence for that claim is vague and a little dramatic, namely: ‘You always do this.’ Conclusion: ‘You’re a piece of shit.’ Maybe it’s not a logically sound argument, but it is an emotionally compelling one. 

He can feel Richie next to him, radiating tense energy. The sound of his voice echoes in his head, the tremor of emotion when he said, ‘I _never_ asked you…’ The fact that he wants to cut their trip short because Eddie has made him that unhappy. 

It’s not apocalyptic-bad, but it feels shitty. Eddie lets himself feel shitty for a while longer, really spiraling until he’s dizzy. ‘What if you lose this?’ he asks himself. ‘What if you did all of this for him and it’s still not enough because you’re fundamentally broken and you don’t know how to be with someone and he’s going to realize that?’ 

And: ‘Don’t you think he deserves better? If you really think about it. Wouldn’t you agree?’ 

It’s not very productive wallowing, but it’s addicting, like picking at a scab until it bleeds. 

When Eddie next wakes up, it’s only a few hours later and still dark. First he’s aware of the warmth and weight. Then, gradually, he becomes aware of Richie’s hair against his face, his breath on his neck. An arm and leg thrown over Eddie’s body. He’s snoring lightly. Eddie smiles and shifts onto his side, taking care to move slowly. Richie stirs and moves with him, settling in with an arm around his waist and their legs intertwined. 

Eddie doesn’t fall asleep right away. He thinks to himself: ‘We’ve made it this far. He wants this to work. I want this to work. I want to be the person he deserves.’ 

In the morning, they’ve separated again. Richie is sprawled out on his stomach, the sheets twisted around his legs. Eddie reaches for his phone, yanking out the charging cord. It’s barely after six. He stays in bed for another twenty minutes, aimlessly clicking around on his phone. Richie still sleeps, his breath heavy and deep, and he doesn’t stir when Eddie eases himself out of bed. Eddie takes a shower, shaves and dresses. Richie still sleeps. Eddie stands by the foot of the bed for a moment, contemplating waking him, but decides against it. He sneaks out and down the hallway to get breakfast. First he makes a plate for Richie: a waffle, scrambled eggs and sausage patties, a ladleful of syrup drizzled over the whole thing. He gets a coffee for Richie and carries them back to the room. Opening the door is a struggle but he manages. He creeps back inside to leave the styrofoam plate of food on the bedside table next to Richie. Then he returns to the lobby to make his own plate. 

When Eddie returns—with buttered-and-jammed toast and a yogurt and a coffee of his own—Richie is sitting up in bed, tearing into his waffle with a plastic fork. He looks up at Eddie, smiling sheepishly as he chews. 

“Thanks,” Richie mutters. 

“Yeah, no problem.” Eddie smiles as he sits down on the edge of the bed, same side as Richie. He reaches to set his coffee on the bedside table and peels the foil lid off his yogurt. Before he takes a bite, he says, “Hey, so… What you said last night, I think was fair. I was trying to get some reassurance about this decision, but obviously you’re not the right person to talk to about my… doubts, or anything. And that’s not to say that I really _have_ any doubts, but… Um. Okay, I’m not going to tell you more about my thought process because that’s shitty. Sorry. I don’t– Um.” Eddie sucks in a deep breath. Richie is silent, watching him, his fork in his hand as he pauses eating. “With Myra, she was really the only person that I talked to. You know? And before that, my mom. I’m a… one-person guy, I’ve never really had a big support network. Except the Losers when we were kids, and… I haven’t figured out how to have that again, even with them. But I don’t want to make that your problem. So, yeah. You won’t have to hear all my whining anymore.”

Richie sighs. “I’m sorry, I got kind of upset. I don’t want you to think you can’t talk to me–”

“Don’t apologize.” Eddie turns to meet his gaze. “Please.”

Richie stares back at him, his gaze sleep-fuzzy behind his glasses. He’s still naked, balancing his breakfast plate on his knees. Eddie thinks for a moment about syrup crusted onto chest hair, and it’s not an entirely unpleasant thought. Then Richie nods and takes another bite of scrambled eggs, sopping up some syrup first. 

“What do you want to do?” Eddie asks. “Go home, or…?”

Richie nods again while he chews. “Is that okay? I’m just exhausted.” 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Eddie says quickly. 

“I just want to be home with you.” 

“Yeah, of course.” Eddie smiles and pats his leg through the sheets. “We can do the Grand Canyon another time.” 

Richie laughs, his eyes fixed on his food as he loads up another forkful. “Wow, when you say it like that– I feel shitty now, we should just go, I’ll cheer up tomorrow, and it’ll be–” 

“No, it’s fine,” Eddie says firmly. “Really.”

Richie frowns. “You’ve never seen it before.” 

“Yeah, but…” Eddie shrugs and laughs. He wants to go to the Grand Canyon _with_ Richie; he wants Richie to be there beside him, eyes bright, and recalling the time he traveled there with his parents as a teenager. He wants to go everywhere with Richie. And Richie is the essential part of that equation. So, Eddie says, “We’ll do another trip. We have plenty of time.” 

The first morning that Eddie wakes up at home in L.A., it’s cool and breezy in their bedroom. Richie left the balcony door wide open while they slept. Eddie was more concerned about bugs or other critters getting inside than he was about burglars, but Richie teased him relentlessly for his worries so he shut up about it. He doesn’t understand why Richie can’t just open a window like a normal person, or get a screen door installed, but… Well. He lives here now, so maybe he can do something about the screen door. 

For now, he’s not complaining. It was a beautiful night’s sleep, the best he’s had in recent memory. The night was dry and cool; his nose and cheeks are chilled, and the fluffy comforter is pulled up to his chin. It’s perfectly warm in bed; their combined body heat is usually too much under blankets, and Eddie tends to run hot, but it’s probably fifty degrees inside and this is… He doesn’t want to get dramatic about it, but this is possibly the most comfortable he’s _ever_ been. 

Eddie shifts to nestle back against Richie; Richie’s lips smack as he swallows, rousing from sleep. He presses closer to Eddie, says, “Morning,” in a rough low voice. 

He’s already half hard and Eddie gets him the rest of the way there, grinding back against him. It doesn’t feel too warm under the sheets even as they start moving, Richie lazily thrusting between Eddie’s thighs. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” Eddie whispers, as Richie bites at his shoulder. But it’s less purposeful and energetic than biting really; he just knocks into his skin with his teeth. 

“No,” Richie says, then drags his lower teeth up to the nape of Eddie’s neck. “Maybe later. This feels good.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says, and he closes his eyes and moves with Richie.

Eddie wants to get unpacked as soon as possible. When they got in last night, he only managed to carry in two boxes from the car before Richie persuaded him to leave it for tomorrow. So, this morning, after they finally get out of bed, shower, and make coffee, Eddie carries the rest of the boxes inside. Richie ‘helps’; he carries one box, and holds the door, and acts surprised by how quickly Eddie finishes unloading the car. 

“You’re too fast,” Richie complains, watching Eddie work as he loiters with his coffee mug in hand. “Making me look bad.” 

“You don’t need much help for that,” Eddie tells him, enjoying the flash of amused indignation across Richie’s face. 

When Eddie starts slicing away the tape and opening the boxes, Richie says, “Oh, you were serious about unpacking today.” 

“Yes.” Eddie removes a couple bubble-wrapped glasses and sets them on the kitchen table. “It’s not that much. I just want to be fully moved in.”

“I’m not even fully moved in,” Richie tells him. “I think I still have some boxes in my closet from 2009.” 

But even Richie can only sit around and watch for so long without making himself useful. He joins Eddie at the table to start unwrapping the kitchenware. That system works. Richie unpacks and unwraps, Eddie finds a home for the things in Richie’s drawers and cupboards. 

A few minutes of silent cooperation later, Richie snorts a laugh and says, “So, you got the bottle-ships in the divorce?”

Eddie turns to see Richie holding one such ship-in-a-bottle. It’s the Titanic one. The largest one Eddie ever made. He feels his cheeks go red and he resists the urge to snatch it from Richie’s hands like a protective child. 

“What are you even gonna do with all of these?” Richie wonders aloud, poking through the rest of the box. “Turn the spare bedroom into E. Kaspbrak’s Bottle-Ship Emporium?”

“I don’t know, I guess I have a hard time letting go of it. It’s this… time in my life that was really miserable, but it’s like… I don’t know, it’s not that many, it’s only like, fifteen of them.” Richie snorts again, and Eddie snaps, “Shut up about it. I’ll keep them in the box in a closet, is that okay? Is that allowed?”

“Yeah, dude, it’s fine, I’m just busting your balls.” Richie sets the bottle back into the box, carefully, adjusting the bubblewrap so it doesn’t clink against the others. “I wish you would get into nerdy hobbies again, it was cute.”

The first few days are uneventful. Now, Eddie’s glad they cut the trip short so he has more of a buffer to settle in at home. He’s spent enough time at Richie’s house that there isn’t much to negotiate anymore. Richie gives him free rein to do whatever he wants to the house, but there’s not much Eddie would want to change. 

One morning, Eddie mentions that Richie’s cleaning service will probably prevent a host of future fights. Richie calls it ‘fight birth control’—all the little baby fights, that will never be born—and Eddie finds this metaphor slightly horrifying. 

“Is this why rich people don’t get divorced as much?” asks Richie, grinning.

“That is not a real statistic,” Eddie says. “I am… one-hundred percent sure that’s wrong.” (This isn’t exactly true, but he is ninety-nine percent sure; he’ll google divorce rates and income levels later, in case it ever comes up again.)

But Richie just laughs and says, “Sorry, I forgot that you’re rich and got divorced. You’re an outlier.”

Eddie stares at him. “You forgot that I got divorced?” 

They’re having a lot of fun together. It feels like Eddie is getting away with something, like he shouldn’t be able to be this happy every day. In the stress about the move, Eddie lost sight of the entire motivation behind it: that he loves spending time with Richie, filling the gaps in his day with little conversations and casual contact. And now he gets to spend so much more time with him for… ever, probably. The idea excites him more than it scares him now. 

Eddie gets started at his new job. The commute isn’t as bad as his New York drive, but it’s still a headache. He makes an effort to start out on the right foot with his new coworkers, smiling at them in the hallway and making small talk in the kitchenette. He mentions to anyone who asks that he moved to L.A. to live with his boyfriend. “We’ve been long-distance for a couple years,” he explains. _Yes, it was hard. Yes, we’re both really happy to live together now._

He watches their reactions, getting more confident each time. He hasn’t done this very often. There’s sometimes a flicker of surprise in their eyes, but nothing more than that. He feels a little silly saying the word ‘boyfriend’ now that he’s closer to fifty than forty. He tries saying ‘partner’ once or twice, and then leans heavily on the male pronouns in the rest of the conversation. Eddie has come too far to let anyone think he’s straight. 

Two of his more sociable coworkers ask enough follow-up questions to lead Eddie to divulge that his boyfriend works in the entertainment industry. Then Eddie, acting on a slight impulse to show off, quickly reveals that it’s Richie Tozier. His boyfriend is Richie Tozier. It’s not a very effective brag since neither of them know the name off the top of their heads. 

The actual job is fine. It’s the same. He feels more content at the end of each day and week. Richie gets back to work, too, as they start filming for season two. Eddie visits on set a few times. Bill and Audra come over for a ‘housewarming party’ the first weekend after Eddie moves in. 

And then, after he’s been in L.A. for barely two weeks, Eddie gets on a flight back to New York. Richie can’t drop him at the airport, so he takes a cab with his backpack filled with what he needs for the flight. By now, Eddie’s an expert at the flight; he reads or listens to podcasts; on Richie’s recommendation, he installed a few excellent time-killing games onto his phone. Still, it’s always a long haul. 

It’s a Friday and he’s cutting it close; missing his pick-up time on his first post-move weekend would not be a good look. The line at Hertz isn’t very long but for some reason it still takes forever to get his rental car keys.

Eddie makes it to Myra’s house in time, after only a little bit of road-rage-fueled speeding. The kids pile in the back of the car as Myra waves at him from the front door. “Ready for Dad Thanksgiving?” he asks them. 

That’s what they’re calling it. Actual Thanksgiving was last week. Eddie had a quiet, low pressure, Chinese-take-out-and-bad-movies thing with Richie. Apparently that’s Richie’s go-to celebration. Eddie wouldn’t mind that being their longstanding tradition. 

For Dad Thanksgiving, Eddie is more eager to impress. He has a shopping list, and recipes saved on his phone. On their way home, they stop by the store to load up on post-holiday clearance items, and enough breakfast foods to tide them over for the weekend. While they wander through the aisles, and while Eddie contemplates whether a quart of milk is too much for the next two days, Frank says something that catches his attention. 

He doesn’t hear all of what Frank says to Charlotte, but he does pick up on two words: ‘Mom’ and ‘wedding.’

Eddie reels around. “What was that?” 

Frank nods his head toward the flower case. “I was just saying, Mom spent, like, an hour looking at flowers the other day.”

Eddie blinks. “Why?” He thinks he knows why.

Charlotte catches onto the source of his confusion. “Did you not–? Mom and Ken got engaged.” 

Eddie squints at them, one hand on his hip, shopping basket in the other. “Really? When?”

“Um, like, a few weeks ago,” Frank says. 

“Was it before I moved or after?”

“I think before,” Charlotte says, then, “Yeah, definitely before.” 

“Oh.” Eddie’s depth of vision blurs for a second while he thinks. Then he shakes his head and refocuses. “Okay. Huh. I’m just– It’s weird that she didn’t tell me.”

Frank says, “Dad,” like Eddie has just said something embarrassingly clueless about Minecraft. 

Eddie looks at him. “What?” Frank stares back, wordless, eyebrows raised, until Eddie wises up. “Okay, yeah, I guess… I understand why she didn’t tell me.”

The rest of the weekend is nice. They make their Thanksgiving meal, and Eddie is not a great cook, but he can follow directions. Charlotte has apparently been watching a lot of Food Network, and she spends most of Saturday acting like a sous chef and telling Eddie he should add wine to everything. He doesn’t add wine to anything. 

Once the food is set out on the table, Eddie snaps a photo and takes a moment to send it to the Losers. This prompts Charlie to ask if he’s sending the picture to Richie and she wants to be in the picture, so Eddie takes another photo, but Frank _doesn’t_ want to be in the picture. So Eddie ends up with a picture where Charlotte is smiling at the camera and Frank is sulking in the back, sitting at the table, head bent over his phone. It’s representative enough, so Eddie sends it to the Losers. _Happy Dadsgiving._

Richie replies within a second: _Is that a holiday where you give it me, Daddy?_

Sometimes Eddie wants his friends to know that Richie is only really like this when there’s an audience. But they probably wouldn’t believe him.

Bev: _Beep fucking beep, Richie._

Bev: _Hope you’re having a good weekend with the kids, Eddie!_

Eddie: _I am, thanks!_

Stan: _Can we kick Richie out of the group chat? We can get his updates from Eddie._

Eddie: _Please don’t do that to me._

Then Eddie pockets his phone because he should probably set a better example for his preteen children. “Richie says hi,” he tells them, even though that’s not strictly true. “Let’s eat.” 

Eddie eventually gets a save-the-date and then, later, an invitation to Myra and Ken’s wedding. Both are sent to Eddie’s New York apartment, not to the L.A. house, even though Myra has the address. They are also addressed only to Eddie and, if he were to attend, he would not be allowed a plus-one. 

So, obviously, fuck that. There’s no way he’s going and there’s no way Myra actually wants him to attend anyway. She just dropped fifty cents on postage to say, ‘Fuck you.’ And that’s… well. Eddie can respect that. So he RSVPs ‘No,’ happily. 

“They just sent out the link to their registry,” Eddie calls out. He’s sitting at the kitchen table on his laptop, where he had been taking care of some personal emails and finances. He thinks Richie is still in the adjacent living room, but he hasn’t heard from him in a few minutes. He might have snuck upstairs. Eddie keeps talking anyway. “I don’t think a second marriage requires this much fanfare. This is absurd. You need gifts? You need a silverware set? Like you’re broke twenty-somethings? I don’t even think Myra and I did this. And I know how much Ken makes, not to mention how much I send Myra, so fuck you, you need gifts.” 

Richie’s head pops up over the top of the couch. His hair is a mess and his eyes are bright. “Want help picking out the worst gift possible?” 

“Yes, yes, I do,” Eddie says, waving him over. 

Together they scroll through the pages of overpriced kitchen and home goods, scoffing. Richie leans over his shoulder to look at the screen, stopping Eddie’s scrolling when he wants to point out a particular item.

“The fuck is a biscuit warmer?”

“I think exactly what it sounds like.”

Richie doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer. “Why would anyone need a biscuit warmer?”

“To… warm biscuits?” Eddie guesses. He keeps scrolling, but Richie commandeers the mouse with a hand over Eddie’s. 

“We have to get it,” he decides. “It’s an expensive, useless piece of junk that she’s eventually going to kick to the curb.” Richie lets his chin clunk down on the top of Eddie’s head before he adds, “Hey, just like you!”

“You’re lucky that you’re pretty,” Eddie says, smiling, as Richie adds the item to his cart and clicks proceed to check out. “Because you sure aren’t funny.” 

“You are the only person in the world with that opinion and I love you for it.” 

On the next page, Eddie starts filling out his credit card information and then— “Oh, you can attach a note. Is writing ‘Good luck’ too on the nose?” 

“Eds, I love it when you’re petty. It’s so sexy.” Richie takes Eddie’s chin to turn his face, and ducks in for a brief but deep kiss. 

Eddie hums and breaks it off, distracted. He turns back to his laptop. “Maybe ‘Best of luck’ is more subtle. No, wait, ‘Our best.’” 

“And then sign my name, too.” 

“Yeah, obviously I’m signing it from both of us.” 

As Eddie fills out the note with some passive-aggressive platitudes, Richie presses up behind him, hands sliding down his chest. “God, I’m so turned on right now.” 

Eddie laughs. “I wish she could know that my boyfriend was feeling me up while I bought her wedding gift.” 

Richie nibbles at his ear and down his neck; Eddie turns his head to expose more skin. “Write that in the note,” Richie says. “Maybe he’ll do more than feel you up.”

—

Richie has never lived with a romantic partner before. That’s his damage, that he’s forty-five years old and finally taking this step. He doesn’t want to be too intense about it, but a few months in and he’s enjoying living with Eddie more and more everyday. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and he resists the urge to wake Eddie up or do something weird like lick his face. Not even in a sexual way, just because he could do it. Eddie is right next to him. Almost every night. He could pry open his eyelids with his fingertips. Eddie would probably say, ‘What the fuck?’ and slap his hand away but he wouldn’t get out of bed. Richie wouldn’t do it, but he could. 

Is this the kind of bullshit that people who live with their partners deal with everyday? Maybe the weird thoughts will pass after the first year. He’s spent a lot of time living with Eddie already, but those were always for brief enough stints that it felt like a special occasion. Eddie was a visitor. They were both ‘on’ all the time, making sure to give each other plenty of attention. Now, Eddie lives here. He makes a mess of the kitchen and doesn’t clean it up. He spends so long in the bathroom that Richie considers going in to check on him, but he’s probably just playing Candy Crush on the toilet. He calls the cable company to fight their way into a discount while shooting Richie a thumbs-up and mouthing ‘I got this.’ Richie loves every second of it. 

They figure out how to get time apart when they need it. There’s no shortage of space in the house; one of the extra bedrooms is Eddie’s office now. Some evenings, Richie will lay in bed upstairs, watching something on his laptop, and Eddie will stay downstairs, watching something else on the TV. Even that feels less lonely. Richie can wander into the kitchen to grab a snack, and Eddie will vaguely acknowledge his presence. And at the end of the day isn’t that what everyone is looking for? Someone to vaguely acknowledge them? 

Richie really wanted Eddie to take ownership of the house, and feel like it was as much his as Richie’s. This didn’t require any encouragement; one week in, and Eddie had said, “Finally, I can rearrange the cupboards,” and he spent two hours in the kitchen, creating a more logical ‘flow.’ Months later and Richie still opens the wrong cupboard when he’s looking for a bowl, but it makes him smile every time.

For a while, Richie doesn’t go back to New York with Eddie. Eddie invites him each time, but Richie is too busy with work. He’s directing a couple episodes this season, and each time it makes him feel like he’s been hit by a train. On his precious few days off, he needs to recover, not further run up his sleep deficit by traveling. But he misses Frank and Charlie. He’s not sure exactly how to fit into their lives now; it would be presumptuous to think that they care that much about him. But when Eddie calls his kids during the week, or when he calls Richie from New York, Charlie usually asks to talk to him. They’re short chats, but she’ll tell him something that happened in school and Richie will ask some follow-up questions and crack some jokes. That’s a good starting point, he thinks. Frank is a bit more aloof, but Eddie says not to take it personally. 

That summer, when the second season of _Fearsome_ drops on Netflix, Richie takes a few days in New York for talk show appearances. He stays in Eddie’s Long Island apartment, which is inconvenient, but he wants to get it ready for the weekend when Eddie and the kids will show up. Someone has to plug the fridge back in and stock up on groceries. 

It’s more stocking up than usual since they’re staying here for an entire week. Richie has a break once the press junkets calm down, and Eddie is taking time off work. The kids are off school for the summer and under Eddie's care for a few days while Myra and Ken go on a Caribbean cruise for their honeymoon. 

It sounds awful; apparently, it was something that Eddie would never do with Myra. For weeks, Eddie and Richie have been making smug jokes that no matter how old they get, they’ll never go on a cruise. 

On Friday afternoon, Richie picks up Eddie from the airport, takes him back home to get cleaned up and changed, and then they travel further out on Long Island. Richie made dinner reservations at a restaurant nice enough to distract Eddie from the fact that his ex-wife is getting remarried as they speak. 

“Did you watch my interviews?” Richie asks, throwing him a look as he drives. 

“I did,” Eddie says, his faint smile perceptible to the trained eye as he stares straight ahead.

“I didn’t hear from you,” Richie says. “Too busy jacking it?” 

Eddie sighs heavily. “Yeah, Rich. Too busy jacking it.” 

The restaurant is on the beach, and they’re seated outside at a small table with a candle between them. As they sit down, Eddie appraises the place, eyes widening. 

“I did good, right?”

“Myra and I came here on one of our anniversaries.” 

Richie pales. “Oh.”

Eddie’s forehead breaks into wrinkles and he laughs. “No, no, sorry, I’m fucking with you. I’ve never been here before.”

“You asshole,” Richie says, too loudly, just as the waiter swoops in. 

Now Eddie laughs harder, hiding his face in his hands, while Richie fumbles through ordering a bottle of wine and some mussels and scallops to start. 

“I don’t like mussels,” Eddie says once the waiter leaves.

“Do I look like I care?” Richie snaps. “This isn’t about you.” 

“Oh, right, thanks.” Eddie grins uncontrollably, picking at the edge of the tablecloth with his fingers. 

“You’re going to have to drink most of the wine, by the way,” Richie tells him, giving his shin a light kick under the table. “Designated driver.” 

“Well, if I _have_ to…” 

And he does, without complaint. Richie only has one glass, and keeps topping off Eddie’s, every time it gets too low. One of Richie’s guiltiest pleasures in life is being sober while Eddie is drunk. It takes a lot to get Richie drunk anyway, and it usually hits him all at once in a way that is decidedly unpleasant. But being around Eddie when he’s tipsy and flushed from a few glasses of white wine is a buzz all on its own. 

The rigidity of his posture and his volume control are the first things to go. He leans back in his chair and extends his legs until his calves knock against Richie’s. He listens to Richie and talks, sloshing his head back every time he laughs. 

(Eddie also develops quite the oral fixation when he’s drunk, but who’s counting? Richie ordered oysters on the half shell just to see what would happen and the results were… illuminating.)

After dinner, Richie shepherds Eddie back to the car and keeps driving toward the Hamptons, until his phone alerts him that they have reached their destination. It’s the wedding venue, a beachside inn, with a large tent set up on the lawn to shelter from potential weather. But it’s a nice night and guests spill out onto the lawn. As Richie pulls into the circular driveway in front of the hotel, Eddie wrestles out his phone and frowns intently at it while he types out a quick text. 

A few minutes later, Myra’s sister Liz approaches the idling car, along with Eddie’s kids who each wheel a small suitcase behind them. The kids look adorable in their formal wear; Frank wears a little vest and bowtie, and Charlie a floral-patterned dress and shawl. Richie hops out of the car and waves. 

“Hey! Um, hi, Liz.” Richie’s smile tightens as she turns her gaze on him.

“Hi,” she says shortly, one hand on each of the children’s shoulders. 

And Richie becomes, once again, all too aware of how he’s perceived by others. But he’s never let that stop him before. 

“Hey, Frank, hey, _Charlie_ ,” he says with emphasis, pointing at her, because as he was informed roughly fifteen minutes ago, she goes by Charlie again. 

“Hey, Richie,” Charlie says brightly. 

While the kids hug their aunt goodbye, Richie springs into action, popping the trunk and tossing their suitcases inside.

Eddie, through the rolled-down window, exchanges a few uncomfortable pleasantries with Liz before she starts backing away. “Give them my best!” he calls after her, window already rolling back up. 

Once they’re all inside the car with the doors closed, Eddie says, “So, how was your mom’s wedding?” 

Richie snorts as he puts in the car into drive. 

“Fine,” Charlie answers, contemplative as she stares out the window. “Weird. It’s just, like, weird seeing your mom getting married.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Well, I hope you had fun. How was the food? Did you dance?” He twists around in the seat to look at them. 

Charlie laughs, and keeps trying to say something, and only laughs harder.

“She’s drunk,” Frank says, deadpan. 

“Okay, they–” she starts, laughing again. “They had a wine glass at everyone’s seat and when they went around pouring the wine they asked if I wanted red or white and I said ‘white, please’ and smiled and they saw my braces and took my wine glass away.”

Richie bursts into laughter, which sends Charlie into more hysterics. 

“Well, that’s good,” Eddie says, but he’s chuckling, too. “I would have to get the caterer’s liquor license revoked otherwise.” 

“Does this mean I look like I’m twenty-one?” she asks.

“You do _not_ ,” Frank says, very seriously.

“No, you look like a fourteen-year-old,” Eddie says. “Don’t get any ideas.” 

“But then one of Haley and Katie’s cousins gave me some of his drink,” she says.

Eddie reels around. “What?” 

This leads to a lot more laughing, as Eddie presses her for details and Frank sells her out. “But the dancing was so fun,” Charlie says and takes out her phone as a diversion. She shows a couple clips to Eddie, who is still clearly hung up on the twenty-something guy who was slipping his daughter drinks all night. 

“Oh, my god, Dad, it’s fine, it was like, a family thing,” she says. “Like, it’s better under supervision from your family.” 

“That is _not_ your mother’s opinion,” Eddie says, huffing. “I can guarantee.” 

“How are the step-siblings anyway?” Richie asks, trying to sidetrack the conversation despite how hilarious it is. “Do you like them, or is it more of a Cinderella situation?” 

Charlie giggles. “Yeah, it’s kind of Cinderella.”

Richie says, “They make you scrub the floors while they wear beautiful ballgowns and laugh at you?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says. “I have to sleep in the attic and my only friends are mice.” After a moment, she says, “Also, Katie and Haley were both drinking Champagne so… Ken let them have some.”

“Yeah, but they’re–” Eddie spins around again. “They’re, what, eighteen and sixteen? You’re not even in high school yet!” 

She ignores him to ask, “Richie, did my dad ever get drunk in high school?” 

Richie snorts, while Eddie says, “Beside the point—also, I actually _didn’t_.”

Richie says, “He moved away during our first year of high school, so I can’t tattle on his delinquent behavior, sorry.” 

“So your high school and college stories aren’t about my dad, then?” 

Richie glances in the rearview mirror to meet her eye, confused. “What d’you mean?”

“Oh, I watched your old stand-up.”

Eddie mutters, “Oh, boy,” quietly but distinctly amused. 

Richie chuckles nervously. “Did you watch…? Which one?”

“Both the ones on Netflix.” 

“Yikes,” Richie says. “I don’t think that should be allowed, dude. You’re not my target audience.”

“I’m mature,” she says, and Eddie echoes it, still sounding smug: “She’s mature.” 

Richie laughs and asks, “Do you look down on me now?”

“No more than usual.”

“ _Ouch_ ,” Richie says, as Frank bursts in laughter behind him. “Geez. Vicious.”

“Wait, no, I didn’t–” Charlie’s laughing again. “I didn’t mean it like that!” 

Toward the end of the long drive home, both the kids are dozing off in the back, and Eddie is dozing off in the front, his head tipped back and mouth slightly open. Richie keeps the radio at a low volume and drives, feeling content. It’s nice when they’re all together in quiet ways; it feels like a family. And, Richie knows he’s reading into this too much, but it makes him feel trusted, that they all fell asleep while Richie drove them home. 

When he parks in the lot behind Eddie’s apartment and kills the engine, the interior lights blink on and the three Kaspbraks rouse from sleep. 

“Oh, I fell asleep,” Eddie says, hauling himself up straighter in his seat. 

“You all did,” Richie says. “Thanks for nothing. I had to entertain myself for the last half hour.” 

Eddie and Richie each haul one of the suitcases up to the third floor. The kids are quick to fall into bed, after taking turns in the bathroom. 

“Are you fucked up from the time change?” Richie asks Eddie as they settle into bed. “Gonna be able to sleep?

Eddie laughs as he leans off to the side to plug in his phone. “Yeah, I’m exhausted, are you kidding?” He flops down on his back and slides down farther so Richie can settle in next to him. “This is gonna be a nice week.” 

“Yeah, it is.” Richie adjusts his head so it rests more comfortably across Eddie’s outstretched arm. “At least we’re not stuck on a cruise ship.” 

Eddie dramatically shudders. “Can you imagine? Floating petri dish.”

“The worst dinner theater you’ve ever seen.” 

“You’d want to capsize at that point.” 

“And you’d _deserve_ to.” 

Eddie chuckles and rubs his hand down Richie’s back until his thumb hooks in the waistband of his boxers. 

“Hey, Eddie.” 

“Mm?” 

“I was wondering, have you ever thought about getting married again? Or did the divorce put you off it forever?” 

Eddie hums; he turns his head to look at Richie, the angle making it so that his jaw and chin are swallowed by his neck. It’s very unflattering and very cute. “Any reason you’re asking?” 

Richie tries, “Tax benefits?” 

Eddie says, “Richie,” not scolding, just a soft prompt: _Drop the front_.

Richie caves, laughing. “Eds, would you ever… want to marry me?”

It’s about two steps removed from an actual proposal. Maybe three. Richie knows that, but his heart starts thudding in his chest nonetheless.

Eddie laughs breathlessly—Richie mutters, “Please don’t laugh.”—and says, “Yes, I mean. Of course I do. I have commitment issues, as you know—as in, like, overcommitment—so I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up, but. Yes, Richie.”

Richie smiles back at him, craning his neck. Eddie ducks his head further to kiss Richie once, then twice; he drags his fingernails up Richie’s bare back, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Okay,” Richie says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“That’s all?” Eddie smiles.

“That’s all for now,” Richie says, grinning just as wide. “Unless… _you_ want to add something?” 

Eddie’s lips press together, his dimples deepening. “No, I think that’s all for now.”

“Okay.” Richie laughs, and acts on a weird impulse, partly to divert attention away from his half-proposal and partly… just because he can. He turns his head to nip at the tender skin near Eddie’s armpit. 

Eddie lets out an undignified squeak and twists away, saying, “What the _fuck_ , Richie? Why are you _biting_ me?” 

But he doesn’t get out of bed.


	10. Epilogue

When Richie finally unfolds himself from the back of Eddie’s rental sedan, he stretches his legs and groans with relief. “I feel like an accordion,” he complains. His knees pop, and he arches his back one way then the other. “A… slinky encased in concrete.” 

“You could’ve made Charlie switch spots with you,” Eddie points out, lacking sympathy. He fiddles around with the controls of the unfamiliar car for a moment before he manages to pop the trunk. 

Charlie steps out of the car and frowns. “No, I called shotgun.” 

“I respect shotgun rights,” Richie says, loading up their three overnight bags on his shoulders. Eddie kind of rolls his eyes as if Richie is showing off. Maybe he is. “Where would our society be without them?” 

“What the fuck is this about?” Eddie asks, his tone flat. He doesn’t stumble over the curse anymore; apparently, once his children graduate high school (or more realistically, once they had _entered_ high school), they lose their pure-ears privilege. 

Eddie’s facing the house, the Southampton AirBnB; on the lush, green lawn are scattered a high quantity of flamingo lawn decorations. Richie hasn’t counted or anything, but it must be exactly fifty flamingos. Eddie gestures at the sea of pink plastic and mutters some vaguely annoyed sounds. 

When they push their way into the house, before anyone even greets each other, Eddie demands to know who’s responsible for the flamingos. Audra and Tanya, apparently, thought it would be funny; and as the two still in their 40s, they took it upon themselves to make the occasion as embarrassing as possible. 

“It is pretty funny,” Mike says, grinning. 

Eddie shakes his head, clearly having given up on understanding the point of it, and greets Ben with a hug. “Happy birthday, man.” 

“Happy birthday to _you_ ,” Ben says right back. 

“No, nope,” Eddie says, hugging Bev next. “My birthday was eight months ago.” 

Richie chuckles, shifting the bags on his shoulders so he can greet his friends. “Don’t mind him, he’s still grumpy about being the oldest.”

“I actually just hate people celebrating me,” Eddie says darkly. 

“Yeah, we all know that, dude,” Richie says with a laugh. “That’s why it’s so much fun to celebrate you.” 

“It’s a celebration of all of us.” Mike clasps Eddie’s hand to pull him into a hug. “Is that gonna be okay for you?”

“Yeah,” Eddie mutters into his shoulder. “I guess.” 

Eddie’s moping is quickly overshadowed by Charlie, who everyone is excited to see again. She’s confident and social and almost as tall as Eddie now. She greets each of the Losers and their partners by name, even though she’s only met most of them once or twice. 

“Congrats, grad,” Bill says, offering her a fist-bump that she reciprocates after a glimmer of amused-confusion crosses her face.

“Thanks,” she says, grinning and pink-cheeked under the attention as everyone else echoes the congratulations. 

“Did you know she got _over_ a four point oh?” Richie asks, his voice rising above the chatter. “Like, a four point two or something. I don’t understand how grades work anymore.” Everyone ignores Richie to ask Charlie about her college plans. Richie looks down at the now eight-year-old Isaac lingering by his side. “Do you get this?” 

Isaac shrugs, noncommittal. “Not really.” 

“Yeah, man, me neither.”

Meanwhile, Charlie nods and answers questions as they make slow progress from the entryway toward the kitchen as a group. “Yeah, I’m starting at Occidental in the fall.”

Bev asks, “Are you gonna live with your dad and Richie?”

Charlie snorts a laugh. “No, oh my god. I’m living on campus.”

“What was that reaction, Charlie?” calls Richie from the back of the pack. “You don’t wanna be roommates?”

“She should have her freedom,” Eddie says. “I’m just glad we’ll be in the same city in case she needs anything. And we’ll be able to see her more often.” 

They gather in the spacious kitchen where there’s a punchbowl of fruit-filled Sangria among a selection of snacks and appetizers. Richie ladles some for himself, then Eddie, then Charlie, who’s allowed to have a little. Richie plucks out a wine-stained orange slice and eats it, licking his fingers. 

Stan asks, “How’s Frank? He wasn’t able to make it?”

Eddie’s facial expression shifts as he answers, hesitantly, “He’s good.” 

Charlie, who has no sense of subtlety, says, “They had a big fight, like, two weeks ago when my dad was teaching him to drive. It was hilarious.” 

From Eddie’s reaction—his mouth makes a straight line and his eyes fix on the floor—it was not hilarious to him. In Richie’s opinion, the two are too similar to get along, and Frank is currently at the height of his terrible teenage years. When Eddie first opened up to Richie about his concerns a year and a half ago, Richie had brushed it off with a, ‘You know how teenagers are.’ But the thing is, Eddie actually _doesn’t_ know what normal parent-teen conflict looks like, at least not from experience. So then Richie had quickly said, ‘Oh, shit, sorry,’ and explained that when he was fifteen he made his parents’ lives hell and they gave it right back, but when Richie’s brain finally mellowed out in his twenties things were—more or less—peachy again. 

Ben says, “Oh, I’m sorry, Eddie.” 

“Yeah, no, it’s fine,” he says quickly. “I get it. I was probably… too intense with it.” 

“Yeah, he taught me how to drive,” Charlie says. “It was… not fun. I had really bad anxiety with it.” 

There’s another beat of awkward silence, which Richie is happy to fill. “See, to me, that’s like, my dream. Eddie yelling at me to change lanes of traffic. Picking apart my form while parallel parking. But I’m into that sort of thing, so…” 

“Richie,” a couple of the Losers say at the same time, in similarly tired tones. 

“What? I don’t think that should come as a big shock. I like being yelled at. How could I be married to Eddie otherwise?” 

Eddie throws him a look that starts sharp before it softens into a fond smile. 

“Yeah, my mom kinda didn’t want me to come to this,” Charlie says, her face aloof as she takes a sip of wine. “But I’m an adult now, so…”

Eddie laughs but it’s tense. “I think she’s still upset because of the college thing.”

 _The college thing_ , Richie thinks, with a slight shudder. It was a yearlong drama that he witnessed mostly at a distance, but still too close for comfort. Charlie decided that she wanted to go to school three thousand miles from her mom’s house and, oh, two miles from her dad’s. That was certainly a statement. The previous fall, when everybody came to L.A. for the school tour, there were some… words exchanged. It was distinctly unpleasant. Eddie didn’t help his case by offering to pay for Charlie’s tuition full-ride if Myra and Ken didn’t support her choice. Richie tried to mediate the argument—which broke out in the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant after everyone had been on their best behavior all day—and it wasn’t a total disaster. At one point, Frank stormed off, shouting, “I’m so fucking sick of this!” and Charlie ended up crying, but… it wasn’t a total disaster. It definitely could have been worse.

“Yeah, she’s been guilt-tripping me all year.” Charlie shrugs and pops another potato chip in her mouth. “I’m over it.” 

Eddie frowns. “I’m sorry you have to deal with that. Do you want me to–?”

“No, Dad, honestly, please don’t say anything. You’ll just make it worse.”

Richie raises his eyebrows and asks, “Should I say something?”

Charlie grins. “Yeah, that would go over really well, Richie. Call my mom right now and give her parenting advice, she’ll love it.”

They continue out the back door and into the yard. The pool is open and empty with a couple towels heaped around the edge and on the recliners, wet footprints stamped on the concrete. 

Once they’re outside under the sweltering July sun, Bev offers everyone sunscreen, as she reapplies her own. “I had a little melanoma last year,” she says, pointing to a pale spot below her collarbone. “Got that cut out.” She makes a snipping motion with her fingers. “So, Charlie, you always wear sunscreen right?”

Charlie answers as she slathers it all over her face: “Yeah, I’ve never been allowed to get tan, don’t worry about it. My parents put, like, SPF 50 on us when we were little.” 

Bev says, “You should thank them for it!” 

“All we talk about is medical treatments now,” Bill says. “I’m sure Eddie is in paradise.” 

Eddie scoffs and says, “Yeah, this is all I ever wanted.” 

“Speaking of health, fellow olds,” Richie begins, “Have you guys had your first colonoscopy yet?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “God, Richie wanted to write an entire standup set about his.” 

“Nothing funny even happened! It wasn’t a big deal at all. I was so disappointed. Maybe that’s something, though. I’m used to having my colon excavated–” 

“Richie–” 

“So, my body was like, oh this again? Let’s do it.” 

“Richie…” Eddie has turned bright red, which—as Richie would point out if he valued his own life less—only makes the entire thing more embarrassing for the both of them. If there was any doubt about the frequency of colon excavations… Now none remains. 

Mike asks, “How’s the writing going, Rich?”

“It's fine,” Richie answers, brightly. “Writing a memoir is funny because it’s like, well, I guess this means my life is over. Roll credits.”

“Hopefully the interesting part of your life is over,” Bill says, and it doesn’t sound like a joke. 

“ _Ouch_.” Richie screw up his whole face up as everyone laughs. “It’s funny when I say it, but…”

“No, I’m…” Bill protests, waving his hands to get everyone to settle down. “I’m serious, the interesting part of your life is never fun while it’s happening.” 

There’s a beat of weighted silence as each of the Losers seem to consider the most interesting and memoir-worthy bits of their own lives. And it seems… true. In the process of writing and dredging up his own memories, Richie ends up feeling like an open wound—before he manages to scab it over with comedy. It’s getting easier to look back on the things that used to make him miserable and find a way to laugh about it, even if just at the absurdity. 

It’s been ten years since they were in Derry together; the actual anniversary is next week. This occasion isn’t as much about that as it is about them, and what they’ve done since, and what they’re doing now, but everything they do together is at least a little bit about Derry. It’s their foundation, it’s the subtext to every word.

Then Eddie says, “I guess my whole life has been interesting, because I’ve never had fun,” and everyone laughs. Richie snaps out of his weird reverie to laugh the hardest. 

From there, the group splinters. Ben and Patty swim some lazy laps in the pool. Bev asks Audra about her recent movie she filmed in South Africa over the winter. Eddie talks to Bill about his latest project, also written in South Africa over the winter. Then, from the sound of it, Bill starts showing Eddie pictures from a safari, because Eddie is saying things like, “Holy shit, that’s a fucking elephant.” 

Charlie traipses across the lawn with her Sangria in hand, following Isaac. They end up in the far corner of the yard, examining some lilac bushes along the property line. When Mike calls to ask what they’re doing, Charlie yells back, “We’re adventuring!” He jogs across the lawn to join them in their search for inchworms and toads and other critters. 

Richie flops down in one of the lawn chairs next to Stan, and asks, “How was Maine?”

Stan smiles and lifts up his tiny, round sunglasses to rest on his head. “It was nice. Patty had never been.”

“Did you end up driving through Derry?”

“We did,” he says carefully. “It’s just a… town. Have you been back since…?”

Richie shakes his head. “No, not since.” 

“Yeah, don’t,” Stan says, so blunt and dry that Richie bursts into laughter. “I mean, it’s fine,” he adds in a rush. “It’s just… a small town. A lot has changed but there’s still nothing to do.”

“That’s Maine for ya.”

“It’s a nice state,” he argues, defensive for some reason. “Isaac really enjoyed Acadia.”

“I know he’s too young to know this, but Acadia is the least impressive of all the national parks,” Richie says, grinning, excited to air his grievances. “It’s first alphabetically and that’s _it_ , there’s nothing else notable about it.” 

“Well, we liked it.” Stan flips his sunglasses back down over his eyes. 

“Come out west sometime,” Richie says. “I’ll show you a real national park.” 

Later, dinner preparations start, and Eddie becomes over-involved in the meat marinade, so Richie removes himself from the kitchen, happy to stay out of the way. He ends up sitting next to Charlie, her feet kicking in the pool. She has another full glass of Sangria and Richie regards her with suspicion. “How many of those have you had? Is anyone keeping track of you?”

She shushes him. “The fruit is so good.” 

“You should make this for your college friends. Save them from the unsophisticated depths of Busch Light and Fireball.” Richie pauses. “Not that I’m encouraging… underage drinking.”

“No, of course not.”

Richie kicks out of his sandals and slips his feet into the clear water that reflects the bright late afternoon sun directly into his eyes. He squints, wishing he had had the foresight to wear contacts and sunglasses, but he never does. “Give me a grape,” Richie says, holding out his hand.

She digs into her glass, among the ice, to scoop one out and drops it in his open palm. “Hey, Richie.”

“Mm?” he hums while he chews the booze-soaked grape. The skin snaps under his teeth in the most delectable way. 

“So, you know Cooper is going to NYU…”

“Did you guys break up?” he asks, without as much sympathy as you might expect from someone who married his middle school crush—even if it was more than thirty years later. Teenagers’ relationships seem sort of frivolous to him. He’s an adult, and he might still have some unresolved bitterness about his own stolen youth. The result is that he finds it naive that eighteen-year-old Charlie is determined to stay with her high school boyfriend despite moving across the country. 

“No, we’re staying together,” she says. “I was actually wondering, if you had any… advice? Like, for long-distance?”

Richie blinks a few times, utterly shocked. “Um. I… I might not be the best person for any kind of relationship advice.” 

She seems to think he’s just being self-deprecating, because she laughs and says, “But seriously, you were with my dad long-distance for four years. You must have figured something out.” 

“It was, um, only three,” Richie corrects reluctantly. “That we were actually together.” 

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Come on, you don’t have to do that anymore.” 

“No, I’m not even shitting you,” Richie says, the pitch of his voice embarrassing and cloying. He clears his throat. “We were on the outs for a while, after… You know. After I went back to L.A.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, thinking, before her face smooths out again. “Hm. Okay. I didn’t know that, I guess I just assumed.”

“But yeah, dude,” Richie says, desperate to get the focus of the conversation back on Charlie and off the exact timeline of his messy relationship with her dad. “I guess my advice is to make enough money to fly cross-country twice a month? That’s what I did.” 

She turns to him with her best, brightest smile. “Will you buy plane tickets for me?” 

“Maybe when your dad goes back to see Frank, you can tag along. He’d like that.” 

She seems skeptical. “You think?”

“Yeah, for sure. Even if you ditched him as soon as you got to the airport, he’d really enjoy spending five hours on a plane with you.” 

Later, after a dinner eaten lounging around in the lawn and poolside, Richie volunteers to help with dishes because it seems like a good way to get Eddie alone for a minute. They stand side by side at the counter, Eddie rinsing plates and Richie loading the dishwasher; Richie refuses the help of a very eager Ben until he leaves them alone. 

Then he says, “So, Charlie asked me for long-distance relationship advice.”

Eddie snorts. “What did you tell her?” 

“That I’m not qualified,” he says. “And, by the way, I think both of you are doing the same thing. Where you both want to talk about it but you’re waiting for the other to bring it up first.” 

Eddie nods as he scrubs a plate. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, rubber-gloved hands wet. “Yeah, that seems like us.” 

Richie sometimes feels guilty about how open Charlie can be with him, when she doesn’t seem to be the same way with her dad. Eddie says he doesn’t blame him, but Richie winces every time he’ll bring up something Charlie told him only to discover that Eddie had no idea. Eddie rationalizes it away: it’s hard to be truly honest with a parent, especially at her age. No matter what, Eddie doesn’t want to pry. If she needs to confide in a father figure she has less baggage around, then… that’s fine. Eddie’s glad that it’s Richie, and that they have a bond. She might tell Richie as a roundabout way to tell Eddie anyway; she never tells Richie _not_ to tell Eddie. If she did, he would respect that… probably. Depending on what it was. Okay, he’d probably tell Eddie anyway, but he would make sure that Eddie didn’t let on that he knew. That seems like a sensible compromise. 

“You know.” Eddie turns off the water, smiling slightly. He turns to face Richie, arms crossed, watching him as he loads silverware into the dishwasher. “Don’t sell yourself short, Richie. I think you might be more qualified to give relationship advice than you think. More than me, anyway.” 

“Wow, what a compliment. Better qualified to give relationship advice than the gay guy who was married to a woman for ten years. I’ll increase my rate for couple’s therapy.”

Richie finishes loading the dishes and then straightens up to look at Eddie, still standing and smiling at him, his fond little smile that he usually wears when he doesn’t think Richie is looking. Now, Richie stares right back at him for a few long seconds. Eddie’s expression doesn’t change; he doesn’t play it off with a roll of his eyes and he doesn’t look away. 

When he can’t stand it anymore, Richie claps his hands and says, “Well, chop, chop. Dishes, dishes. We’re almost done.”

Later that night, after swimming in the pool and drinking more and setting off a few ill-advised fireworks, everyone finds a bedroom. Space is limited, so Richie, Eddie and Charlie are sharing one of the double rooms. Throughout the evening, Eddie kept complaining about having to sleep crammed in a single bed with all six-foot-two of Richie, until Stan looked right at him and said, “You’ve done it before.” That shut him up, cheeks pink again. 

So, hair still damp and chlorine-stiff, Richie settles into one of the creaky twin beds in the upstairs bedroom. Charlie is already lying in the other bed, sprawled out on her back with her phone propped on her chest. 

A minute later, Eddie returns from the bathroom, changed into the t-shirt and shorts he sleeps in. He closes the door and looks at Richie for a moment, frowning. 

“How do you wanna do this?” Richie asks, opening his arms to him. 

Eddie’s mouth twists, amused but still scowling. “Maybe I’ll take the floor.”

“No, dude, come on.” Richie scoots all the way to the edge and pats the bed next to him. “We can cuddle, right? Will you survive one night of cuddles?” 

“It’s two nights,” Eddie grumbles as his smile finally wrests control of his face and he crawls into bed. 

At first they lay side by side, stiff shoulders knocking together until Richie mutters, “Lemme… just…” and shifts so his arm wraps around Eddie’s shoulder. They fall into a more comfortable position, Eddie’s head resting against his arm and his leg on top of Richie’s. 

“Lights?” Eddie asks Charlie, craning his head. 

“Mhm.” 

Richie reaches to flick off the lamp, and the room falls into darkness apart from the glow of Charlie’s cell phone screen. Richie removes his glasses and places them on the bedside table. He shifts a little, sliding down so he’s laying flat, and Eddie adjusts with him. 

“Did you have fun tonight, Charlie?” Richie asks. 

“Yeah, it was fun.”

“It’s cool of you to hang out with us old fogies.” 

Eddie snorts and nestles his face into Richie’s chest. 

“What are we doing tomorrow?” she asks. The light from her phone dims. There’s a clunk as she places it on the bedside table, and she rustles with the sheets for a moment, settling in. “The beach?”

“Yeah, the beach,” Eddie answers, his voice quiet and deep and rumbling. “And I think, uh. Ben rented a sailboat, right?” 

“I dunno,” Richie mutters. “Did he?” 

“No, you’re the one who told me that he did.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Richie argues, and the volume of his voice is too much for the dark room so both Eddie and Charlie shush him. 

“Okay, well,” Eddie murmurs. “Somebody told me that he rented a sailboat. So I think we’re doing that. Sailing.”

“Fun,” Richie says, with only a touch of sarcasm. “Did you bring your boat shoes, Eds?”

“Nope. Forgot.”

“Darn.”

The other bed creaks as Charlie turns onto her side to face the wall. She says, “Goodnight,” and Eddie echoes it.

“Okay, night.” Richie lays still for a moment, his outstretched arm pinned under Eddie’s head. His elbow is stiff and tingles begin radiating up to his shoulder. After a couple minutes, he can’t bear it anymore. “Hey, man, can you–? My arm is falling asleep.” 

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Eddie shifts onto his side, taking the weight off Richie’s arm. “Is this better?”

Richie settles in behind him, assuming the familiar position, an arm around his waist, knees bent together. “Yeah, this is better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … :)
> 
> okay, so. I want to say that this is by far the longest thing I’ve ever written. Previously the longest things I had written were three separate works that were 50k each. So, this was incredible on a personal level to see that I could blow my old record out of the water. Take THAT, past me. You chump. You were absolute garbage. 
> 
> This was also incredible because of the amazing feedback & enthusiasm for this fic! Thanks to everyone who kudos’d, commented on, bookmarked, and rec’d this fic. 
> 
> And— fan art? THANK YOU :’)
> 
> Links:  
> <https://twitter.com/oofa_doofa/status/1262822896155734022>  
> <https://twitter.com/ficreq/status/1257957706880684032>  
> <https://twitter.com/poornell/status/1291171355979911168>
> 
> Special thanks to Rissa who humored me when I was re-watching Bojack in January and texted her like “lol, Myra and the kids,” and then helped me spin that into … all of this. And for catching all of my Bojack references… I think there’s, like, eight total.
> 
> I’m on tumblr @[skeilig](https://skeilig.tumblr.com/) and twitter @[skeilig_](https://twitter.com/skeilig_)


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